The Irked Opera
by E. S. Young
Summary: ON HIATUS: A parody based on The Phantom of the Opera 2004 cuz it's funnier that way. With Dib as Raoul, Gaz as Mmme. Giry, the Tallests as the managers. And who shall play Christine? Moreso, who shall play the Phantom? Includes new, totally cheesy songs!
1. Prologue

**L'Irken de l'Opéra**

By

_E. S. Young_

**_Prologue_**

All the way back in 2003 a simple-minded teenager by the name of E. S. Young decided to combine her two favorite fandoms (_Invader Zim _and _The Phantom of the Opera_) as well as her two favorite pastimes (writing and acting) into one show-stopping extravaganza. Unfortunately, it didn't quite turn out the way she had planned. The jokes were lame and the grammar was certainly not up to par. So, so sad…

However, in 2004, a new movie came out… one that was based on ALW's charming musical. (shrug) I liked it – Minni Driver and Miranda Richardson specifically – although I think the Phantom's deformity could have been worse and they could have gotten better singers to fit the roles of Christine and the Phantom. Their voices weren't _bad_, but I think they could've been _better_. Eh. Don't mind me; I've been brought up on Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman, so my standards are a little high. :D; _Anyway_… the new movie came out and inspiration for a PotO fic hit me. Now, since January that story has been taken down and is undergoing some serious reconstruction, but it shall be back. Until then, IZ and PotO fans alike should enjoy this rewriting of my parody. Also, nearly everyone now has a French name. Or at least they have theiroriginal name with a French twist to it. (shrug) I thought it would be fun, not to mention fitting. After all, they're in _France._

♪ ♪ ♪

**_Paris, 1919_**

It was such a shame to see the Paris Opera House reduced to _this_. Now it was nothing more than a sad, decaying building that only stood as a bleak monument to what it had once been: a magnificent theatre. How awful it was to see the once grand windows boarded up, it's marble stairway coated with a thick layer of grime, it's beautifully painted walls filthy and peeling. Oh well. It wasn't like it was any of _his _concern. He had withdrawn from patronage _years _ago.

"Hey," a decrepit Dibier began, twisting around in his wheelchair to scowl at the young nun who served as his nurse. His "nurse/nun" or "nun/nurse," whichever the reader preferred. She had thus far been wheeling him toward the towering Opera House, but she had suddenly paused in her work, choosing to gaze up at the grand building and let her eyes glaze over. Again Dibier frowned when he got no response.

"Come on, it's just a building. Couldn't you hurry it up a bit? I kinda wanted this to be a 'get-in-get-out' thing, ya know?"

Shaken out of her dumbfounded reverie, the nun/nurse started and at once turned her warm brown eyes upon the withered old man stationed in the elegantly carved wheelchair.

"How's about I send yeh onna trip down th' Sien Riva, eh?" she asked in throaty English.

The old man's eyes widened behind their gold-framed spectacles as he fell silent, knowing that she would not hesitate to make good on feeding him to the fishes.

"I was just wondering if you could go faster. Jeeze, Abby…"

"Yeh wanna go faster, kid?" asked the nun/nurse – though Dib was having second thoughts about the woman's sisterhood and her medical abilities– her dark eyes glittering mischievously.

"Well…yeah, I – no, wait!"

But he was too late. With a triumphant laugh, the young nun/nurse took off, pushing the delicate wheelchair and its equally fragile occupant with as much force as she could muster, barreling into the Opera House with terrific speed. With her charge emitting a piteous wail of terror – to which Abby paid him no mind – the nun/nurse burst through an enormous pair of double doors, sending them flying back against the sullied walls with an echoing bang.

At once heads turned, and Abby grinned.

"Viscount's here," she announced to the dozens of staring eyes, giving a nod to the shaken old man in the wheelchair. "Silly ol' man loves t' make a dramatic entrance." She gave a careless shrug, showing just how unconcerned for her charge's condition she really was.

Little did Dibier and his nurse/nun know that they were being watched. Far away – well, really not _that _far away. More like across the room and behind a rather rotund gentleman. But it was a pretty big room and he was a pretty big gentleman, so the space _was _rather far away… Okay, okay. Across the room and behind a rather rotund gentleman stood a tall, slender woman, her auburn hair stained gray from years of age, and the alabaster skin of her face sagging with folds of wrinkles. But within her dark blue eyes was a something that not even Time could grasp: a flame. The bright, flickering light that one could only find in the eyes of small children danced within this old woman's blue orbs, partially obstructed by a pair of slender, oval-shaped glasses. And when the old woman saw the Vicomte, clutching his chest and panting at his over-zealous nurse's actions, she smiled and the light of her eyes burned even brighter.

At the top of the dusty staircase, the auctioneer stood behind a polished, wooded lectern and cleared his throat importantly.

"Well, as you can see by the sign outside –"

"What sign?" hollered a voice from the crowd, cutting through the din like Simon Cowell cuts through a young singer's hopes and dreams (because 'like a knife through butter' is _so _yesterday.)

The auctioneer blinked, his large moustache bristling in confusion.

"The sign...it…it's right out front –"

"I didn't see a sign!" the voice called again.

"Well, how could you miss it? It was right over –"

"Didn't see one!"

"Then how, pray tell, did you end up here?"

"I read it in the paper!" the person stated proudly (the readers may picture him making the 'u.u' face right about now).

"Well then what difference does it make if you saw the sign or not?" the auctioneer demanded, his face turning a vivid shade of maroon as his irritation continued to climb.

"It makes a _lotta _difference, buddy!" the person cried, highly affronted at such a ridiculous notion. "What if I hadn't seen the add in the paper, huh? Then I never woulda known about the auction!"

"I'm sure we would've gotten by," the auctioneer commented dryly. "After all, there are plenty of bidders—"

"Who said I was gonna bid?" the voice demanded. "Not me! I'm just here for the pie."

Upon hearing this, the auctioneer seemed ready to eat his gavel as a look of pure rage consumed his flabby face. "There _is _no pie, you imbecile!"

"Oh," the person said, stunned. "Goodbye, then."

And with that, there was the distinct sound of someone walking out of the room, (because the author didn't feel the need to give the person a face since she thought it would be much more comical to just have a voice shouting from the crowd) followed by the sound of a door being opened and then, several seconds later, closed. Sitting back in her faded, gray computer chair, the author read over what she had just written, shrugged, and thought to herself _Hooray for too-long sentences!_

Again the auctioneer cleared his throat.

"Well, now that _that's _over with… we can begin. Ahem. Lot 665: a prop from the very popular _Scary Monkey Show_." He gave a curt nod to the assistant at his side who immediately lifted a small, apish figure into the air and began parading it around for all to see.

"Yes, yes, thank you," the auctioneer murmured distractedly. "This…_incredibly _freaky monkey is, in fact, a music box –"

A gasp rose up from the crowd of bidders.

"Be quiet," snapped the auctioneer, banging his gavel against the lectern in anger. "It's not that amazing. Ahem. As I was saying… this music box was found in the Opera basement. At first we thought it was covered with mold and mildew and quite beyond repair… but then we realized that it was supposed to look like that. Why anyone would want to buy it, I don't know, but we figured we might as well give it a shot. Any takers?"

The ugly toy monkey scowled out at the crowd from beneath its sloping brow and began to move its mechanical arms. The tarnished cymbals it held in each hand began to clang in time with the music that issued from the little black box on which it sat. The crowd stared in awe.

"Anyone?" droned the auctioneer unenthusiastically. "Anyone at all…? Yes, you there! Next to the Flying Nun!"

"'Ey!" Abby cried angrily.

"Quiet, Abby," Dibier hissed, waving his bidding paddle furiously at the auctioneer. "Me, me! Oh, come on! I know you see me! Over here! Thirty francs!"

"We use Euro, now, sir," the auctioneer informed him dully as his assistant placed the music box in Dibier's gnarled hands.

"Whatever," the viscount replied, eagerly accepting the Scary Monkey Box. Gazing down at the little machine in somewhat revolted wonder, he could not help but reminisce.

_A collector's piece? No way._

_I couldn't sell it. Not even on eBay._

_But she always talked about this monkey;_

_Its creepy face and its smell that's kinda funky._

"Okay," the auctioneer sighed, unknowingly pulling Dib from his musings. "Now, the occurrence I'm sure you've all been _dying _to…occur…Lot 666, ladies and gentlemen!" The auctioneer leaned over his lectern and whispered conspicuously, "You just _know _it's something good, right? The triple 6? _Now's _the time to be excited!"

The crowd stared, completely unmoved. In the distance, a single sound vibrated throughout the entire theatre: the lone chirping of a cricket. The auctioneer was outraged.

"Oh, come now! What about old-timey superstition and all that garbage? Don't you people know a bad omen when you see it?"

Several pairs of eyes blinked, but that was it. The auctioneer shook his head in disgust and motioned to his assistant to help him with Lot 666.

"As I was saying…erm…what was I saying…? Oh, yes. Lot 666! A chandelier –"

"A chandelier?" someone – most likely the same obnoxious person from before – called.

"_Yes_, a chandelier. Of DOOM."

"A _broken _chandelier of DOOM," the assistant corrected calmly, tugging on the massive sheet that covered said relic of DOOM.

"Dude, why would anyone wanna buy a _broken_ chandelier?"

"For the collector's value, geeze!" The irate auctioneer shook his head and sighed. "Don't you people know anything? This chandelier is the one that was dropped by _the Phantom_ – you know. The Opera Ghost."

He was pleased to when a gasp came from the cluster of bidders.

"Exactly. So, needless to say, this baby's value is through the roof – broken or not. Of course…we replaced the candles with light bulbs, so that may take the price down just a _teensy _bit. Ahaha. Oh well. Raise the curtain, José !"

"How many times do I have to tell you? My name's Fernando, gosh darn it! _Fernando!_"

But no one paid the grief-stricken assistant any mind, because at the exact moment he was correcting the auctioneer for the umpteenth time, he was jerking the sheet away, revealing the colossal structure that lay beneath it. The giant broken chandelier of DOOM (aside from being giant, broken, and full of DOOM) must have doubled as a time machine. Because, you see, the moment the sheet was pulled away the chandelier began to rise from the dusty grown on which it stood, pealing the dirt and grime from the theatre as it soared to the heavens above. The signs of age melted from the walls of the Opera House, fading away into oblivion as the theatre was once again restored to its former glory.

♪ ♪ ♪

Yes, I've decided to re-write the songs. (hangs head in shame) Normally I would never consider doing this because my poetry skills are simply abysmal. However, I had a few new lyrics in mind when I first considered writing this and apparently they were enough to convince me to re-write all of the songs. Oy. I have most of the songs planned, though some may take longer than others – example: "Music of the Night." Noooo idea what I'm going to do for that. It's such a beautiful piece and I'd hate to taint it with my lame excuses for replacement lyricists, however, I don't want to post the same song because, let's face it, that's boring. And you don't want to be bored, do you? No. I thought not.

**Notes**

"nurse/nun" or "nun/nurse" – I think in the movie she _was _to be a nurse, however, my charming cousin had to remark that she looked like the women on that old TV show _The Flying Nun_ and I've never been able to figure her out since

Sister Abby – the nun/nurse (or nurse/nun) is, if you've read _Open Up Your Mind _or are a member of my RPG, quite obviously my character the wiry nun-turned-privateer Abigail Bones. If on the unlikely chance I decide to write a _Pirates of the Caribbean _story, she would be in in. However, since that is, as I already stated, unlikely I've decided to give her a cameo in this.

Monkey Music Box – it's pretty much the Scary Monkey dressed in Persian robes and holding cymbals if that wasn't already clear.

666 – no notes on this, I'm just wondering if anyone knows why exactly the number 666 is associated with Satan. I've tried looking it up and have only succeeded in procuring a number of satanic cult web sites. If anyone can help me out, that'd be great. :)

'Til next time, dear readers! _Au revoir!_


	2. Cheesy Songs and Old Acquaintances

**Chapter I **

**_Cheesy Songs and Old Acquaintances_**

Good news! My _Once Upon a Time in Mexico _story is completed! Some of you may not care, but I certainly do. I started that story over a year ago. Hard to believe, especially for me, but it's true. Hopefully this one will not take so long. It's going rather quickly for me and the pace should pick up now that I've finished _Smoke Gets in Your Eyes_. :) Also, please feel free to ignore the anachronisms. They're only here to make you laugh, after all.

♪ ♪ ♪

**_Paris, 1871_**

"_Thisa trooooOOOOOoooOOOOooophyyyyyy… frromma saaaviors,_

_Frromma saaaaaAAAaaaAAAaaavioooooorsa!_

_Frrom the enslaaAAaviiIIIiinga foOOorrrce_

_OoOOffa RrrooooOOOOOoooOOOooome!_"

All held their ears in tacit pain as an unwavering aria flooded the theatre. As it was bouncing off of the red and gold walls, it was difficult to detect just where the wretched noise originated. To the blind, that is. Those whose eyeballs were in working condition were able to knew exactly where took look. Because they could see, see? Good. In any case, eyes or no eyes, it should have been common sense to look to the stage if one wanted to find the source of the dreadful semi-warbling. And believe you me, it _was _dreadful. The song was a nasally one – a clear indication that its vocalist was, in fact, singing through her nose rather from her diaphragm. To add to the dreadfulness of the singing, the diva was a _loud _one, making her ear-splitting melody blare throughout the entire Opéra House with excruciating vigor. What's more, what the singer had in volume and nasal, she lacked in quality and vibrato. However, this wasn't exactly a _bad _thing because, as those who study voice are most likely well aware, singing without vibration puts a terrible strain on the vocal cords and there is a serious chance that it will cause damage to the singing voice. So, you see, those listening to the off-key, un-warbling tunes of the nasally diva would not have to suffer for long. They would, however, have to suffer _now_.

"My God, how _ever _did she become prima donna?" one scene shifter questioned.

"She and the manager are a, ah, "item," so to speak," a rope-puller whispered back.

"But…isn't he retiring today?"

"…I'd like to begin my retirement as soon as possible," the now former manager explained, briskly escorting the two new managers across the stage, completely oblivious that a rehearsal was taking place and that he was interrupting it. Stopping suddenly and trodding on the big toe of a ballet dancer, the former manager turned to face his followers, finding that he had to tilt his head back almost at a complete ninety-degree angle to see them, as both were incredibly tall. Not to mention thin. But while they shared the same towering height and rail-thin build, their choice of color was clearly very different. One favored red, from his crimson suit coat and bloody cravat, to his flaming hair (styled in a ridiculous and somewhat foppish pompadour, I might add) and strangely scarlet eyes that protruded excitedly from a head covered in equally strange green skin. His partner was no better in his outfit of all violet, thought the former manager, eyeing the midnight purple pants, the long mulberry coat, and the lilac colored vest. His hair was cut in a much more conservative style than that of his partner – slicked back and neat – but the former manager could see that, when the light hit in just right, the 'do was not black, but in fact an abnormally dark purple. Shaking his head and praying that he had handed the Opéra House over to the right people, the former manager quickly collected himself.

"Ah…as I was saying, I would like to make this as quick as possible as I have a retirement to start on. So! Allow me to introduce you to our _marvelous _staff…M. Alexendre, our conductor…"

A slight young man with elaborately spiked, Beethoven-esque hair gave a sharp not, running a delicate finger along the edge of his baton as he surveyed the new management with intelligent blue eyes. The former manager continued.

"And here we have Mlle. Gazette, mistress of the ballet."

"Unfortunately," a rough voice muttered with knifelike sharpness. Before the trio of managers stood a paragon of darkness, her pale face scrunched with disdain – though it was difficult to tell if she really _was _disdainful, for she almost always wore an expression of utmost bitterness. The ebon attire she was currently clad in only emphasized her dark atmosphere as she glared up at the world through violet colored hair, her pointed little fingers curling threateningly around a black cane.

"Don't be silly, Mlle. Gazette," the former manager said brusquely. "You do a wonderful job with the _corpse de ballet _and I for one – oh," he halted after receiving a poisonous glare from the ballet mistress. "Wh – what I mean to say…is…Ah, La Calamari!" he exclaimed, gesturing grandly to a lanky blonde who, as the author's mother would say, 'had legs up to her behind' as well as a very prominent nose. "Messieurs," the former manager began excitedly, "I trust you heard the lovely singing when I escorted you into the theatre? Well, what if I were to tell you that you were in the presence of that music's creator? Mademoiselle Calamari! Our prima donna!"

La Calamari curtsied grandly, making a show of smiling, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously, and just generally being as obnoxious as could be.

"_Laah_velleh to 'ave meht yoo," the soprano greeted in her thick (i. e. false) Russian accent, the gold, scarlet, and turquoise folds of her gown rustling noisily as she gave another curtsy.

"And this," the old manager said, gesturing to a boy with an afro of bright, orange hair and a costume that matched Calamari's, "is our lead tenor, Poonchy, Bevitore di Odio."

"I drink hate!" the kid screamed sounding quite pleased with himself.

"Calamari, everyone, allow me to introduce your new managers: Messieurs Rouge and Violet!"

As the staff applauded politely, the new management waved, giving the occasional wink to a ballerina or two.

"Hey, how ya doin?"

"Yeah, that's nice," interrupted Mlle. Gazette dryly. "Look, can we get back to work? Unless you _want _your _corpse de ballet _to look more like a bus full of "special" kids."

"Very well, Mlle. Gazette," said the former manager. "Get on with it – ah, M. le Vicomte! How good of you to arrive…"

All heads – from the chorus girls to the stagehands, from the ballet rats to the musicians, from the managers to the seamstresses, and from La Calamari to someone who could actually carry a tune without the aid of a bucket – turned just in time to see a bespectacled young boy quickly threading his way through the theatre. He was clad in black pants and a crisp, white button up shirt, and over that he had thrown a navy blue coat that touched his ankles. He also happened to have a rather large head that was only enhanced by a single, towering, scythe-like spike of hair. One would think that he would want to draw attention _away _from a head so large, but no. This boy was, perhaps, the kind of person who deliberately drew attention to himself so he would have something to complain about. Regrettably, there were and still are many like this in the world, the young Vicomte, however, was one of the less annoying ones.

"Sorry I'm late, everyone," he panted as he clambered onto the stage. "I got sidetracked while going through the woods. I thought I saw Big…foot…" Upon noticing that every set of eyes was upon him, the Vicomte rubbed the back of his neck and let out a nervous laugh. "Uhhh…"

"M. le Vicomte de Dibier," the former owner announced uncertainly, gesturing to the equally uneasy Dibier, who waved vaguely.

♪ ♪ ♪

"Oh _snap!_" a ballerina gasped upon seeing the viscount. She quickly attempted to become one with the red velvet curtains that flanked the stage.

"Silvie?" another dancer asked, her blue eyes wide with concern.

"Did he see me?"

"Did _who _see you, Silvie?"

"The viscount, Tyia, who d'you think?"

Tyia turned from the cowering ballerina to look at the spiky-haired Vicomte de Dibier who was currently making an attempt to salvage what was left of his good name by assuring everyone that he really _did _see Bigfoot. No! He really _did _see him this time, but that monster was tricky and blended into the woods so easily that it was impossible to find him. And if you didn't believe the story, then that's just because you're a stupid, closed-minded jerk – oh. Sorry.

Tyia quirked an eyebrow and, flipping her long auburn hair over her shoulder, returned her gaze to the distraught Silvie, who also happened to be her sister.

"Care to explain?"

Silvie rolled her odd, gray eyes. "Don't you remember?"

"Probably not."

"Figures," Silvie muttered, tugging absently on one her of her dark brown curls. "The Vicomte de Dibier chased after me all the time when we were kids!"

"Aww…"

"Not like _that_, Tyia."

"Oh."

"Yeah. He thought I was a witch or _some_thing. A few of my guesses are scarily accurate and suddenly I'm clairvoyant. Sheesh! He really wasn't that bad – he probably would've been a nice kid if he hadn't kept making all of these unfounded accusations. Plus there was the stalking. He stalked me. A lot. And he would probably still _be_ stalking me if I hadn't filed that restraining order."

"Oh," Tyia said, adjusting her small, oval glasses.

"Let's just hope he doesn't remember me," Silvie went on, eyeing Dib with distaste.

"Well," said the other dancer cheerfully, "he hasn't seen you, yet, so that's a good sign!"

♪ ♪ ♪

"Look," Dibier began apologetically, "I'm late and I'm holding up your rehearsal…how 'bout –"

"—you increase your patriotism?" the former owner supplied good-naturedly. "Excellent idea! Don't you agree, gentlemen?"

"What does 'increased patriotism' mean?" Rouge whispered to his partner.

"Uh, I think it means that the big-headed kid's gonna give us more moneys," Violet replied knowingly.

"My head's not big!" Dibier complained.

"Yes it is," Mlle. Gazette stated flatly.

"Gaz?" the viscount gasped finally taking notice of his sister. Really, for a paranormal investigator in training, he wasn't all that observant when it came to things that stood out. "Everyone thought you'd been kidnapped by some crazed psycho – well, that's what the newspapers said. But _I _knew the truth! I knew my sister could take on any kidnapper, so I figured that you _must _have been hypnotized by vampires! So…what are you doing _here?_"

"Trying to get away from you," Gaz responded in the same toneless…tone.

"And you…came to the…Paris Opéra House?"

"Yes."

"O…kaaay." Dib eyed his scary sister nervously for several seconds before slowly edging away.

"Ehscuseh _me_," Calamari broke in unexpectedly, "buta Aye do believa dat ve vere een de meeddle of a rrrehearsal?"

"Oh. Yeah," the former manager said as if he had just now realized this – which he had. "Carry on, then."

And so, the rehearsal continued. Which means that Calamari continued singing. Which means that the writer was on the brink of ripping out her own hair. However, she quickly refrained from doing so once she remembered that there was some talking before La Calamari got to open her mouth again and thanked whoever for small favors.

The _corps de ballet _filed out on stage. All of the dancers were hooked together with chains – faux chains, of course, as real chains would be quite heavy and might interfere with the dancing – to remind us all that they were to be slave girls. Each ballerina was clad in _very _risqué belly-dancer costumes of gold, orange, and red. And when the author said risqué, she meant risqué for 1871. For people of today, their outfits were probably nothing compared to what Briteny Spears flaunts, but they were _way_ out-of-line for the Victorian era. But that's Joel Schumacher for you.

"Hey," M. Rouge said to Mlle. Gazette as he pointed to one of the dancers. "Who's _that_? I like her hair."

"Tyia," Gaz answered, observing the ballerinas' progress through her sharp amber eyes. "She's one of the better dancers. I've only had to whack her twice this week." And she brandished a sleek, ebony cane to prove her point. The every member of the _corps de ballet _as well as a few chorus members let out gasps of terror and rushed to pick up the pace.

"_Eeeee,_ chains! Ow! Sorry!" one of the ballerinas cried as she became hopelessly entangled.

"And, ah, who's _that?_" Violet wanted to know.

"Silvie," Mlle. Gazette replied with distaste. "Tyia's sister. If their dad hadn't died and if the old ballet mistress, Madame Bitters, hadn't been a complete _idiot _and sympathized, we wouldn't be stuck with either of them."

"Wait. 'Dad?' Didn't the computer say that humans have two parents?" Rouge wondered out loud.

"Yeah!" Violet agreed, hitting Rouge upside the head. "_We _certainly had two! Yep! We sure did!"

Mlle. Gazette raised an eyebrow.

"Yeeeah…unless one of them _dies_. Silvie and Tyia's mom did, so their dad had the bright idea to bring them here. Then _he _had to go and contract this deadly toe fungus or something, so now _he's _feeding the worms –"

"What do worms have to do with being dead?" Rouge wanted to know.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Violet hissed.

Gazette ignored them.

"I guess Mme. Bitters was a friend of the family, or maybe she was just stupid, I dunno, but she let them stay in the dormitories and taught them to be ballerinas. Or she _tried _to teach Silvie, anyway."

They all watched as the curly haired dancer attempted a _jeté entrelacé_ and wound up on her rear instead. Blush staining her cheeks, Silvie quickly picked herself up and, flashing Mlle. Gazette an apologetic smile, got back to dancing. The poor girl had only been on her feet for three seconds before she crashed headlong into the unbearably imperious Calamari.

"'Ay! 'oo do youa tink you arrre barrrshging intooa me lika dat?"

"Sorry!" Silvie cried sadly, not really understanding a word the diva had said.

"'Ow darrre youa! Dis wassa my fahvorrrite foot!"

"Geeze, I said I was sorry." Silvie paused to raise a questioning eyebrow at the still ranting prima donna. "Your favorite _foot?_ Who the heck favors a foot?"

"_I _happen to favor my left earlobe," M. Alexendre spoke up calmly.

"Not helping, Alex," Silvie muttered in annoyance.

"Dat's eet!" Calamari declared suddenly. "Aye am leaffing!"

"Hey," Mlle. Gazette said to Rouge and Violet, "if you're done ogling the dancers, your prima donna's about to leave."

The new managers stared at her blankly as the old one seemed to have disappeared some time ago.

"Your lead singer," Gaz tried to clarify.

"…"

"The _star_."

"…"

Mlle. Gazette let out a sigh of disgust. "The person who your real identities depend on because, if the show went on without _her_, then everyone would know that you guys are really aliens and not human beings."

"**_What?_**"

Panicked, the two excruciatingly tall managers scrambled after Calamari, completely ignoring the fact that Mlle. Gazette had just informed them that she knew full-well that they weren't human managers, bur alien managers instead. Well, just because they were capable of ruling an entire planet, or, in this case, an opera house doesn't mean that they were smart.

"Wait, wait, _wait!_" Rouge called."Somebody stop that short, noise-making human!"

"_Vhat?_" Calamari demanded, spinning around to glare at the new managers.

"You _can't _leave! The purple ballet monkey says we _need_ you," Violet explained hastily.

"Aye don'ta care!" Calamari proclaimed. "No one apprrreesheeates my moozak! Mah costumes arre nevah feenished! Ahnd the leettlest ballet rrat _brroke mah **foot! **_Therrefore…**_Aye am leaffing!_**"

"_Au revoir!_" her fellow cast members chorused cheerfully as she huffed indignantly and spun on her heel.

"Aww, man…" whined Rouge. "Pur, _do _something!"

Violet signed tiredly all the while wondering why he and Red had decided to disguise themselves as managers in the first place. It certainly hadn't been _his _idea.

"But we really _need _you, skinny…singing…thing. Cuz you're, uh…really, _really _good."

"Oh? Vell…" Calamari batted her eyelashes and tried not to appear too flattered.

"Oooh, I know!" cried Rouge. "Why don't you sing for us?"

The rest of the performer's eyes widened in horror.

"Yeah!" Violet nodded encouragingly. "That'll prove how much we need you around!"

"Verreh vell…" the diva purred lasciviously. "_All offa you be qviet!_"

Silence descended immediately. Smiling sweetly, Calamari nodded to the conductor. "M. Alexendre."

"Huh? Oh. Right. From the top, guys."

A soft tune began to issue from the orchestra's piano as Calamari readied herself. All around her the other members of the house were hurrying to shove cotton in their ears in the hopes of dulling sordid melody that would soon fill the theatre. With her arms flung out and her mouth stretched to its full extent, Calamari cleared her throat and began to sing.

"_Rrrreeeememba meee…_

_Rrrmemba dearly_

_Wheeeeen ve've parrrted vaaaaays!_

_Rrrreeeemema meee…_

_Rrrreeeemema always_

_Each ahnd ev'ry daaaaay!_

_On dat daaaay…_

_Dat not so deeestant daaaay_

_Ven you are far avay –_ "

"**_Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!_**" shrieked Tyia as the backdrop came crashing down upon Calamari. "Oh, God! It's the Opera Ghost! He's here!" she cried, clutching her sister's shoulders and shaking her violently.

"What a nice guy," Silvie remarked, thinking that the ghost couldn't be all that bad if he had taking the liberty of silencing Calamari if only for a few minutes.

Tyia blinked.

"_Keefé!_" M. Alexendre yelled up into the rafters.

A small boy with a single pouf of bright orange hair appeared at his side at once.

"Yes, sir?" he asked brightly.

Alexendre jumped, startled by the boy's sudden appearance. "Geezum Crowe! Uh…yeah. Keefé. Why did you let that backdrop…drop?"

"I swear it wasn't me, sir! I was looking for the ghost!"

"The gho –"

"Dat's eet!" Calamari raged, shoving away the hands that tried to help her. "Aye am seeek of dis! Dis 'as been 'appening forra seeex months now, and Aye am fed uppa vith eet! No, no, don'tta trrry to stoppa me – Aye am leaffing! Mah maids are leaffing! Ahnd mah doggeh ees leaffing tooah! You two!" she ordered, pointing to the pair of maids that doubled as cronies. "Breeeng me Teenkerbell and let's go!" She abruptly turned her back on the pair of managers. "Goodbye, ta ta, bye-bye!"

And she stormed out of the theatre without a second thought.

Violet threw up his hands.

"Great! _Now _what are we supposed to do? Soon the whole world will know who we really are! The whole world, Red!" he yelled, shaking his partner by the shoulders. "_The whole world!_"

"Buddy, you need some _drugs_," M. Alexendre commented critically.

Violet whirled on the conductor and pointed a thin, green, threatening finger.

"You shut up! You don't have to put up with this!"

"Actually, I _do_."

"Arrrrgh! Just…tell me…_is there a replacement for that foul, noise-making human?_"

"Relax," Mlle. Gazette assured the new managers. "Calamari doesn't have an understudy –"

"_Aaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!_"

"I guess I shouldn't tell you that I have a letter from the Opéra Ghost. Oh well." She held out a white envelope edged in black and held shut with a red wax seal. As his partner was still in hysterics, Rouge accepted the note.

"He seems to think I'm his message girl," Gaz informed him cynically. "I've told him that I'll rip his feet off and make them into a hat if he doesn't knock it off, but he has the tendency to go deft whenever anyone but him is talking."

"Yeah, how 'bout that…" Rouge said absently. He was busy peering intently at the wax seal. "Hey, Pur, does this look familiar to you?"

"We're_ DOOMed! _I_ knew_ I shouldn't have let Red steer the Massive! I _knew _we'd crash! I _knew_ it! Sweet mother of Irk, we're _DOOMed!_"

"Uhh…" Rouge eyed the other manager for several seconds before turning back to the letter. "I could swear this looks like the Irken insignia…oh well." He was only a few lines into the note before his red eyes narrowed and he turned to Mlle. Gazette in fury. "I'm supposed to _pay _this guy? With _my _moneys? For what? What does he _do?_"

Gaz shrugged.

"He haunts the theatre and causes mayhem and annoys me."

"And he wants these boxes all for himself?"

"Box Eight. And Six. And Three. And sometimes Five, but only on weekends. Yeah."

"Tch," Rouge sniffed disdainfully. "I'll bet this 'ghost' is just some stupid _short_ thing who likes to toy with people, ah?"

"Actually, the people who've seen him say he's pretty tall."

"Taller than me?" Rouge demanded at once.

"I dunno. I've never seen him."

"Lotta help you are – Pur, would ya _stop_ that?"

"_Who _are we gonna get to replace her? _Who?_"

"I know who," Mlle. Gazette said quietly.

Violet stopped in his tracks.

"Say 'what' and I'll tear your tongue out and hand it to you," Gaz warned. "Silvie," she went on to explain. "She can sing it."

All eyes turned to the silver eyed, curly haired sylph in curiosity. Silvie blushed and glanced around nervously.

"She'd do better as a singer than a dancer any day," Mlle. Gazette went on to say. "Plus she's been getting lessons."

"From who?" Rouge asked of the little ballerina.

Silvie shifted uncomfortable. "I…don't…knooow… Except he seems really, really _tall_."

"Taller than me?" both of the managers demanded.

"Um…no?" she offered helplessly.

"Oh, forget it," Rouge sighed wearily. "Just sing…sing the stupid song, and hope to Irk that you're good or else…" He drew himself up importantly. "…you're goin' out the air lock!"

Silvie blinked.

"'kay."

M. Alexendre gave a sharp nod and raised his baton.

"From the beginning of the corny '80s pop ballad, then."

"Oh Irk, let it be good," murmured Violet as Silvie took center stage.

"_Remember me…_

_Remember dearly_

_When we've parted ways._"

A hushed veil of awe fell over the cast and they gazed in wonderment at the small girl who was emitting such a sweet melody.

"_Remember me…_

_Remember me always_

_Each and ev'ry day._

_On that day,_

_That not so distant day…_

_When you are far away from me,_

_If the urge happens to hit you_

_Do remember me…_"

In one gigantic, swirling motion we travel forward in time to that night. Obviously, Rouge and Violet had liked Silvie's singing and decided to go ahead and make her the new prima donna. Calamari would not have been happy upon hearing this news, but no one liked her anyway.

Silvie stood in the center of the stage wearing a huge, white, poofy dress that sparked each time she moved, as well as what appeared to be ninja stars in her hair. She was practically glowing all over. All of her. Even her face. Well, it reflected her innocence and purity and angel-like beauty, albeit, she looked remarkably like she had just taken a tour through a nuclear power plant. But she looked radiantly beautifully radioactive, so it all worked out. This ethereal glow was brought to you in part by Nicky's House of Radioactive Material! The fibers in Silvie's dress mixed with the paint from Nicky's nuclear plant created a strange, yet perfectly harmless glow that all could enjoy. Unfortunately, all the paint that was put on her outfit dried under the blinding stage lights, stiffening the gown and making it somewhat difficult to move. And so, poor Silvie was forced to remain stationary and stand in the middle of the stage like some kind of mannequin– a thin, white, pretty _glowing _mannequin.

"_Though it's true_

_Though it was always true_

_Our love was never meant to be._

_Please swear to me that sometimes_

_You'll remember me._

_Remember springtime when the skies were blue_

_Remember how the flow'rs were bright and new._

_Remember me_

_Remember me smiling –_

_Soft and warm and bright._

_Remember me_

_Learning to love_

_With all my burning might._

_Remember me,_

_Please do remember me_

_No matter what you choose to do,_

_For I'll always spare a second_

_And remember you!_"

The author scowled, wishing that she could have done more with that than simply type up the cheesy lyrics. She did not take all of the blame, however, for Emmy Rossum gave her nothing to work with. She just _stood _on stage and sang. Oh, and at one point her right arm was partially outstretched for some reason. Other than that she simply stood there and sang the words. And since the author couldn't remember what Christine did when she went to see the show on Broadway…she was at a loss to express Silvie's debut any further. She would like to apologize deeply to her readers for ranting and making pointless excuses, however, even though she knew that they were all intelligent, creative individuals who were quite capable of amusing themselves whilst they read the block of corny lyrics that had been forced upon them.

Assured, the author sat back in her computer chair and continued to type, confident that, despite Silvie's lack of movement, the readers had enjoyed the cheesy new lyrics and had pictured hand movements and lots of nice choreography to go along with said lyrics.

Now, back to our parody.

The audience thundered with applause as Silvie gave a beaming smile, adding to her appearance of a halogen watt bulb, and gave a stiff curtsy. Unbeknownst to her, despite being stationed about five stories below the theatre, someone who was not an audience member was listening intently to her triumph with growing hauteur. That is, until an odd, mechanical contraption that could only be described as an iron monkey came crashing into this mysterious someone, upsetting his listening. Meanwhile, also unbeknownst to Silvie, high up in one of the boxes that didn't belong to the Opéra Ghost, a certain viscount/paranormal-investigator-in-training was _watching_ the performance in amazement.

"_It's really…_

_It's really…_Silvie?"

The Vicomte de Dibier looked down at the young, radioactive _chanteuse _and let out a stunned "Wow!"

He rose from his seat and quickly exited the box, hurrying through the Opéra House in the hopes of catching Silvie before she was bombarded with fans, as he was certain she would be. And as he went, he happened to break into a familiar song.

"_Let her go,_

_I should just let her go._

_I can feel it in my brain,_

_If I tried to approach her_

_She'd think I was insane – _Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

In his haste to rush backstage, Dibier was oblivious to everything and therefore never noticed a certain purple-haired ballet mistress when she detached herself from the shadows, stuck out a foot, and sent the Vicomte spiraling head-first down the grand staircase. Mlle. Gazette smirked to herself and went back to watching the performance. Meanwhile, back on stage, Silvie was busy wrapping up the corny '80s pop ballad – er, that is, the heartwarming aria.

"_When you've flown,_

_When our own love has flown,_

_Recall this single, heartfelt plea:_

_If you ever find a moment,_

_Say…you…will…_"

(Opera singing)

"_Remember me!_"

Upon hearing the sensational cadenza, the crowd of theatergoers broke into an uproar of praise, shouting lovely compliments such as "Woo!" and "Silvie _rocks!_" and "You _go_, girl!" and "Yeah, baby! Take it _oooooooooff!_"

Trying not to show her delight too much, Silvie beamed and bowed her head shyly before curtsying to show her appreciation, though she knew that a curtsy – no matter how grand – could never express the gratitude she now felt. Or how stiff she felt. Under the heat of the stage lights the radioactive had hardened until Silvie's dress had no more flexibility than a rock.

"Um, could someone gimme a hand, here?" she called to the people standing backstage once the curtains had closed and successfully shielded her from the euphoric audience. "I like being on stage and all but this is _trés _uncomfortable."

She smiled gratefully as two burly stagehands (who we'll call Justin and Ray-Ray) entered from either side of the stage to lift her little incandescent form (Justin grabbed her head, Ray-Ray grabbed her feet) and cart her off like a piece of furniture.

♪ ♪ ♪

"Vell? 'ow vas she?" Calamari demanded.

"Mam'selle, it's a…a little _cold _out here, ya know," her servant stammered, shivering as he gazed into the open widow of a bright pink brougham stationed outside the Opéra House, a brougham that La Calamari and Poonchy, Bevitore di Odio happened to be sitting in. How the opera went on without its lead tenor remains a mystery. The point is that Melvin was freezing his toes off and he only had seven toes to begin with. "I think I may be contracting hypothermia…" he whined to Calamari.

"You vill contrrrract vhen Aye tell you too!" the former diva shrieked. "Now tell me, _Melveeen_…'ow vas she?"

"Yeah, umm…she was…goooood…"

Calamari's sharp blue eyes narrowed.

"'Ow good?" she growled ominously.

"Mmm…" Melvin said, furrowing his brow in thought. He was thinking very hard and it was clear that when he responded, his answer was going to be profound, deeply inspired, and positively reek of creativity. "I'd say…" he began slowly, "Pretty goooood…"

"**_Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!_**"

"I drink hate!"

♪ ♪ ♪

Backstage the cast was just as talkative as the audience had been. The crowd of chorus members, patrons, ballet rats, and fans was so dense that Tyia found extreme difficulties in threading her way through the throngs of people. Twelve minutes, seven seconds, three crunched toes, and one bruised shin later, she reached her destination.

Pushing open the door of the Opéra House's nonsensical little chapel, she caroled softly "_Siiiilvie? Siiiilvieeeee?_"

"_Siiiiiiilvieeeeeee…_" the room seemed to echo.

Kneeling before the altar, Silvie, still decked in her slightly more pliant yet still sparkly and white costume, turned from lighting a candle and smiled softly. Returning the grin, Tyia knelt beside her.

"_Where in the heck have you been lurking?_

_Honestly, you're amazing!_

_Who in the world is your new teacher?_

_He must be quite the artiste._"

"Tyia," Silvie began quietly, "this'll sound weird, but… ya remember how Daddy used to tell us all kinds of made-up, magical, mystical mumbo-jumbo when we were kids? Okay, well, y'know how my favorite story was the one about the pixie? Good. So, when Daddy was dying from chronic toe fungus, he told me that he would send that dear little pixie to watch over me. And Tyia," she whispered, leaning over conspiringly, "he did! When we first came to live here, I would go to this nonsensical little chapel and light a candle for Daddy – y'know, like I always do."

"Uh huh."

"Well, every time I would come here, I would hear this _wonderful _voice – it was positively angelic, Tyia! But thankfully, when I told my doctor about it, he prescribed these little pink pills and that made everything _alllll _better! But recently – like, six months ago – the voice started again! Only this time it was…different. It was still a beautiful voice, but…I dunno…it wasn't _as _sublime, I guess. I asked my doctor to up my dosage. He complied, although he was starting to worry that I'd become addicted to the pills. But," she concluded in a tone even quieter than before, "_the voice didn't stop! _So I figured that it _must _be Daddy's dear little pixie come to watch over me at long last!" She grinned, knowing her sister would understand completely.

Tyia stared at her blankly.

Silvie continued to grin.

Tyia blinked. Twice. Then, after several seconds, she said "And you…just…_assumed _that it was the pixie and that Dad had sent it?"

"Yes!"

Tyia resumed staring for several seconds. Her reddish eyebrows knitted in concern as she eyed her beaming sister.

"So, lemme get this straight," she started slowly. "He was _my _daddy too, but what do I get? A spot in the bloody _chorus_ and the purple-haired horror pummeling me every ten minutes? What a rip!"

"Are you saying you don't believe me?" Silvie asked, perplexed.

"Lemme put it this way," her sister began gently, placing a hand on Silvie's shoulder and gazing intently into her gray eyes. "Pixies aren't sent by daddies, and if they were, they wouldn't hide in little girl's nonsensical chapels and sing to them."

Silvie gasped, appalled. "Don't say that, Tyia! Every time someone says that, a pixie falls down _dead!_" She glanced around and clapped her hands feverishly. "I _do _believe in pixies, I _do_, I _do!_"

Her sister eyed her warily.

"Don't you see, Tyia?" Silvie asked, worry penetrating the happiness in her voice.

"_Daddy told me of a pixie._

_And now I know that it's near._

_This chapel, the stage, in my bedroom –_

_It's everywhere!_"

As if to express her point, Silvie rose and spun around the nonsensical little chapel with her arms outstretched as if to encompass the entire world at once.

"_Here, in this room it's always talking,_

_Things about DOOM and destruction._

_That's how I know it's always with me –_

_It, the sweet wood sprite._"

Tyia grasped her sister's shoulders tightly to stop the girl's extant twirling.

"_Silvie, I'm sorry, you're crazy!_

_I pray it's all a pretense._

_Silvie, your eyes hint of madness_

_And you make no sense!_"

But her sister seemed not to hear her as she gazed around the room in euphoric wonder, looking positively radiant as she clasped her hands together, tilted her head toward the ceiling and sang,

"_Dear little pixie,_

_Come out right now!_

_Prove to her my sanity!_"

She glanced around and began to laugh nervously when her savior did not appear.

"_Dear little pixie,_

_Stop this hiding!_

_Things are looking bad for me!_"

Silvie turned to Tyia, her silvery eyes expressing a silent plea for her sister to believe her outrageous tale.

"_He's with me now, I swear!_"

"_Of course he is,_" her sister replied with false reassurance.

"_Always with me…_" Silvie murmured distantly, glancing around the chapel.

"_My God, Silvie,_" cried Tyia. "_You're pale!_"

Silvie's gaze snapped back to her sister in confusion.

"_I always am._"

"Oh" Tyia looked embarrassed.

"_I'm sorry…_"

♪ ♪ ♪

Silvie's lovely eyes magnified twice their size as a sudden outbreak of flowers overtook her when she opened the door to her new dressing room. On each and every surface imaginable sat an arrangement of posies. From each corner peeked lilies, carnations, and a vast rainbow of roses. No surface had escaped her flock of admirers.

"Wowww…"

"Yeah. A lot of people are glad you quit the ballet," Mlle. Gazette remarked, shoving past the dazed _chanteuse_ and storming into the room.

Seeming not to hear her, Silvie continued to gaze around, absorbing every detail as though it were all a mere dream that she would awake from in a matter of seconds. Despite an unfortunate preponderance of pink in the décor, her dressing room (formerly La Calamari's) was quite beautiful. Rectangular with rosy walls and pale coral paneling, the dressing room contained a number of expensive articles of furniture. Several small tables made of deep cherry wood dotted the room. A gleaming dressing table of the same rich wood came with three gilded vanity mirrors and sat against the wall to the left of the door, while a plush, pink feinting couch resided near the other. And taking up the final wall, drawing all of the attention to its sparkling surface, stood a gigantic, full-length mirror.

Suddenly, Mlle. Gazette scoffed.

"Looking at the rest of your room, I'd say your pixie's gift is pretty lame." Wordlessly she held out a single rose of the darkest shade of purple. A plain black ribbon of crisp silk had been neatly tied to a smooth, green stem that was utterly devoid of thorns.

"Oooh, isso pretty…" Silvie breathed, gladly accepting the purple bloom. "I've never seen one this color before."

"Uh huh," Mlle. Gazette replied, clearly uninterested as she watched the new prima donna sit at the vanity mirror. "Whatever." Without another word she placed a can of mace (don't ask where she'd been keeping it; you'll only be hurting yourself) and set it on the corner of the dresser. Silvie looked up at her in puzzlement.

"Thought I should warn you," the ballet mistress explained, "my brother's here tonight and he'll probably be looking for you."

Silvie's mouth fell open in shock. Her left eye twitched.

"Does he still think I'm a witch?" she asked warily.

Mlle. Gazette raised a skeptical brow.

"What d'you think the mace is for?"

♪ ♪ ♪

"O-_kaaay_…sooo…tell me again…_why_ are we brining the good singing-human flowers?"

M. Violet sighed, running a hand through his dark purple hair (wig). Truly his fellow manager was an idiot. If they hadn't happened to be the same height, Violet wouldn't even have had to bother with Rouge. Had this been the case, chucking the red-clad manager out the airlock would have been M. Violet's first order of business.

"We're catering to her so she won't ditch us like the _bad _singing-human did," he explained hotly.

"Oh." M. Rouge paused, busy juggling two bushels of bright red roses. "Heheh, my flowers are better than _yoooours_…"

M. Violet hit him over the head with his own bouquet of bright pink roses and then glared at said flowers distastefully.

"Why don't these things come in purple?"

Poor M. Violet. He obviously did not realize that in order for Silvie to seem extra-specially-special, only the title character is permitted to send her purple roses that happen to be as inexplicable as the Opéra House chapel. The author, however, understood this logic perfectly. After all, what self-inserting – that is, self-_respecting _writer would deprive their OW of being extra-specially-special? Thus, the inexplicable purple roses were only accessible to Silvie's pixie.

"Wait! Hold on!" cried a voice from behind. The managers turned around in time to see a bedraggled-looking Vicomte de Dibier detaching himself from the crowd of thespians.

"Hey, it's that kid with the moneys," said Violet, looking mildly interested as he watched the viscount rush up.

"Where?" asked Rouge, trying to peer around his two gigantic bouquets.

Violet ignored him.

"D'you guys know where Silvie is – a…hey…" Dibier narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he took in the two towering manager's pale green skin, three fingered-hands, and lack of ears and nose. The young viscount's eyes widened. "You're not –"

"The good-singer human is right through this door, big-headed kid," Violet informed him quickly, gesturing to the pink dressing room door behind him.

"My head's not big!" Dibier protested out of habit.

"Coulda fooled me!" Rouge laughed nastily. Dibier rubbed his rather large head self-consciously, scowling up at the tall, redheaded manager.

"You wanna see the Silvie-thingy? Here," Violet said in a panic, hastily shoving his bouquet of pink roses into Dibier's arms. "Give these to her and get lost!"

"But you're –"

"Don't worry, big-headed kid!" Rouge assured Dibier, forcing his flowers into the viscount's arms as well. "I'm sure she'll be _delighted _to see you!"

"Hey! Ow! Don't shove – watch it! Aaaaaah!"

Dibier continued to emit cries of pain and protest as the two tall managers threw him mercilessly against Silvie's pink dressing room door and hurried away, disappearing into the crowd.

♪ ♪ ♪

A loud BANGcame from the other side of Silvie's door, making the curly-haired singer jump. Her hairbrush slipped from her hand and landed with a soft _thump _on the berry colored carpeting. The little diva barely acknowledged the sound, as her gray eyes were fixed intently on her dressing room door. Another BANGresounded, causing her door to vibrate dangerously.

BANG,_ BANG, **BANG!**_

Silvie's eyes widened as she listened to the extant onomatopoeia. Slowly, she reached for the can of mace Mlle. Gazette had left her.

A pained "_Owww…_" followed a low moan and then someone knocked tentatively.

"Silvie?"

The singer cringed, tightening her grip on the mace.

"M. le Vicomte?"

"Uh…yeah," Dibier replied awkwardly, his voice slightly muffled. "You don't hafta call me that, ya know."

"'kay," she said just as awkwardly.

"Can I come in?"

Silvie scowled, eyeing the door suspiciously. "D'you still think I'm a witch?"

"Well," said the Vicomte's fairly, "you _did _know that it was _me _at the door…"

"_Dibier!_"

"Sorry, sorry, okay! Geeze… So can I come in, or what?"

"Fiiiine," Silvie sighed, bored. And she rose to open the door, taking care to step back as the Vicomte tumbled inside. Apparently he had had his ear pressed against the door, not wanting to miss a singled word Silvie might have said. Said _chanteuse_ eyed the boy at her feet, who in turned flashed a nervous smile. Silvie glared and pointed her can of mace at him in a most threatening manner.

"No stealing _anything _of mine for scientific study, Dibier," she warned. "If I find one single follicle of hair, skin, toenails, etceteras missing from my body…" She waved the mace can fiercely to prove her point. "And Vicomte or no, I won't hesitate. "

"Okay, _okay_…" Dibier held up his hands defensively. "I know you're not a witch now, anyway. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

When Silvie continued to aim the mace at him, Dib tried another tack.

"Uh, you're really good, by the way?" he attempted hopefully. "I had no _idea_ you could sing!"

"That's cuz you were too busy _STALKING ME!_" the tiny diva raged, her eyes glittering furiously. "But because of your kind words I am willing to overlook your past behavior," she informed him calmly, so calmly, in fact, that she even bit at a hangnail. Dibier watched her cautiously.

"Uh…good."

"Hey!" Silvie cried suddenly.

"What? What is it?" Dibier asked, looking around the room, desperately in search for the cause of the singer's outburst.

"Nothin,'" Silvie answered simply. "Just that….well, I really shouldn't have accused you of not paying attention to me. See, cuz you _couldn't _have known I was a good singer cuz I kinda _wasn't _until a while ago. Yeah, see, when my daddy was on his deathbed and he told me that he'd send a pixie to look out for me."

Dib's eyes widened.

"Pixie?"

"Yuh huh. And after seven long years he's finally shown up and is giving me music lessons."

"A pixie that gives music lessons," Dibier stated.

"Yes."

"…………_Wow! _Oh _man, _are you serious? Silvie – you gotta tell me _everything _you know about this pixie! When did it start visiting you? How did it happen? How long has it been going on? What does it smell like? I _need _to _know! _It might be in league with that Sasquatch I saw earlier…"

Silvie gasped in horror.

"You're not gonna do anything not nice to my pixie, are you?" she asked sounding distressed.

"Oh, no, of course not," Dibier assured her offhandedly. "I mean, electro shocks might hurt a bit, but other than that –"

"_Dibier!_" Silvie cried out, horrified. "Don't you dare hurt my pixie!"

"I gotta go get my HF Detector," the Vicomte was muttering to himself, quite unaware that talking out loud in an unnatural manner is a sure sign of insanity and, if not that, then it wasn't about to help him score points with Silvie. "I'm sure it'll work on pixies, too…if I could only remember where I put it…" he murmured rapidly, hurrying out of the room without so much as a word to the little singer.

"Dibier, tell me what you intend to do to my pixie!"

"…the glove compartment, of _course! _And I think I left some gum in there, too – pixies _love _gum! I'll bet I can lure it out with it, then catch it in the butterfly net, and then I can study it! I bet I can even get some info on Bigfoot out of it, too!"

Completely unaware that he had just blurted out his entire plan (rather loudly, one might add) and thus giving Silvie's pixie, who was most likely lurking somewhere in the room at that very moment, the upper hand, Dibier sprinted out of the room as quickly as a person with a head that big could run. The Vicomte was so consumed by the thought of at last overturning paranormal entity that he brushed right past his sister Mlle. Gazette, not even bothering to acknowledge her let alone offer some kind of greeting. How rude. It was probably best this way, however, as Mlle. Gazette didn't care for her older brother all that much anyway. Besides, she was busy keeping watch on someone much more important.

As the Vicomte de Dibier came barreling through the front doors of the Opéra House, every single candle, every gas lamp, every source of light imaginable flickered every so slightly…and went out.

Mlle. Gazette stood beside the door of Silvie's dressing room, unfazed by the sudden power outage. Instead, she snorted in disgust and spoke, seemingly to herself for there wasn't a single person in the vicinity. At least…no one who could be seen.

"You can make all the lights in the Opéra go out at once…but you have to lock a door _manually?_ Some all-powerful Opera Ghost."

"_Sileeeeence!_" commanded a furious voice.

And the mistress of the ballet rolled her eyes as a claw-like hand, swathed in a glove of black leather, reached out and turned the key to the dressing room door, locking the young singer inside.

♪ ♪ ♪

Another chapter finished. The next one…eh…I'm not sure how long it will take for me to get that one up. Rewriting the title song and "Music of the Night" shall be difficult. But I'll work on it as much as I can. As always, praise is welcome, although I prefer constructive criticism – remember: compliments may make you feel good, but critiques help in the long run. :D

Notes 

…she lacked in quality and vibrato – I study voice. Can ya tell?

A slight young man with elaborately spiked, Beethoven-esque hair - my friend Alex let me put him in the parody under one condition: that I would give him Beethoven hair. Honestly, I think he would look very good like this IRL.

La Calamari - basically, she's a combination of every woman I couldn't stand, such as Catherine from my _Once Upon a Time in Mexico_ stories, some obnoxious cheerleader not worth remembering, said cheerleader's faithful sidekick, Hilary Duff, Paris Hilton... She can't seem to remember what country she's from, actually, as she keeps switching accents if anyone noticed. Incidentally, "calamari" is a popular Italian dish – fried squid. Hee...

Tyia - she has to be Meg just...because. She's a Meg reincarnate, I swear. Musical!Meg, anyway. And I loved Movie-verse Meg -- she was too cute, as is Sister Tyia, thus confirming that she needed to be Meg. u.u Plus, as much as I love IZ, they are seriously lacking in female characters. And the ones that they do have don't fit these roles very well. I mean, Tak as Christine? Gaz as Meg? No. Just...no.

Risqué belly-dancer costumes - they _were_ risqué. Had the ballerinas gone on stage in those kind of get-ups in the 1800s...women would be whipping out their fans and letting out cries of "Scandalous!" and "Good Lord!" and "Who do they think they are?"

"...I've only had to whack her twice this week." - Tyia's a good ballerina, mmmyep. Even if she _is_ too tall. :(

The old ballet mistress, Madame Bitters - I debating giving the role of Mme. Giry to Miss Bitters. She fits it eerily well. But so does Gaz. And I like Gaz more than I like Miss Bitters. Besides, there weren't exactly many options for Gaz, you know, and since I wanted her in the parody.../Gaz: And since I threatened to maim her if she made me Meg.../...I decided to make her Mme. Giry but make a mention of Miss Bitters being the old ballet mistress.

"_I _happen to favor my left earlobe" - he would so say this. I called and asked him to confirm it. u.u

Geezum Crowe – is this a quote of some sort? It sounds like a quote, but I'm not sure…

"Breeeng me Teenkerbell" - Tinkerbell is the name of Paris Hilton's little Chihuahua if I'm not mistaken, and I don't think I am seeing as how the Paris Hilton episode is my favorite _South Park _ ep. of all time. :D

Box Eight - _Maskerade_ ref! Long live Terry Pratchett! Huzzah!

"And sometimes Five, but only on weekends" - cuz Erik uses it during the rest of the week. u.u

Ninja stars in her hair - c'mon. They are so ninja stars. I think Christine takes women's self-defense courses at the local YWCA. Yep, I'll bet'cha that's it.

She just _stood _on stage and sang - sorry, Emmy fans, but I do not like Miss Rossum at all . MHO: she's not all that pretty, she has no expression save for that irritating gaping mouth and that constant 'doe-in-the-headlights' look, and her singing voice is rather weak. And don't even get me started on her diction. Her fans make her all the more unbearable for me, though.

(Opera singing) - XD! I feel the need to explain. No, I did not cheap out on the writing. This is, by far, one of the biggest in-joke in the PotO fandom. Allow me to explain. While I do not condone in Mary Sue bashing, I do frequent Sue bashing communities on Live Journal so I know what not to do when I write a piece of fanfiction. Moving along, one of said communities took the liberty of fustigating a Phantom fic in which the Sue sang "Think of Me" (by heart, of course!) in the most angelic voice ever imaginable – yes, even more angelic than Christine. The author even took the liberty of posting all of the lyrics for us in case we didn't know them already (read: SARCASM) and the end of the song went as follows: "_But please promise me that sometimes you will think... (Opera singing) Of me!_" That was all. Since then, icons, banners, jokes, and even a community have been made to honor what is probably the most beautiful cadenza ever written in Phantom-Sue history. And now I have contributed to the (Opera Singing) Shrine as well. Aww… that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. :B

The Opéra House's nonsensical little chapel - repeat after me: This did not exist. Not in the Paris Opéra House, at least. In Andrew Lloyd Webber's magical alternate universe, however, it most definitely does exist, along with the ballet dormitories and that little roof where Christine and Raoul go to confess their undying love to one another.

Dear Little Pixie - if you spotted the Terry Pratchett reference, you get a prize:D In his book _Maskerade_ (part of the Discworld series as well as something of a PotO parody) Christine says "_Because my dear father told me that one day a dear little pixie would arrive to help me achieve my great ambition..._" I read that and went with it. Now, stop reading this at once and go read Pratchett. Now.

"…the glove compartment, of _course! _And I think I left some gum in there, too – pixies _love _gum! I'll bet I can lure it out with it, then catch it in the butterfly net, and then I can study it! I bet I can even get some info on Bigfoot out of it, too!" - don't ask where this came from. I'm just as lost as you are.

"So…you can make all the lights in the Opéra go out at once…but you have to lock a door manually? " - Mlle. Gazette rocks. She says what we're all thinking. Or at least...she says what my friends and I were thinking whilst watching the movie. :D

Wow. Many, many notes. Sorry about that, but I can't help it if I have a lot to say. Anyway, I'm sure you all like this better than if I would insert obnoxious A/Ns throughout the story, yes? Yes. Thought so. u.u


	3. Brainwashing Tactics

**Chapter II**

_**How to Brainwash a Thirteen-year-old Girl Without Even Trying (Much)**_

I would like to apologize for being a complete ditz and forgetting to make an important (well, no, not that important) note at the end of the last chapter. Yes, I know, what with all of the notes that were already made, how could I forget? But I did. Sorry. But you guys all lived, right? Right. Anyway, the note was about Silvie's hair. If you recall correctly, when Dib first started banging on her door, Silvie was holding a hairbrush. More than likely she was brushing her hair or had been about to but was rudely interrupted by the impatient Vicomte. Now, anyone with curly hair ought to know that this is an incredibly stupid thing to do. Brushing your hair while it's curly only results in a crazy mess of frizz. Do NOT brush curls. Ever. If your hair is wet, it's fine, brush away – this is actually a _good _thing to do – but don't brush dry curls. EVER. It's just common sense. Thing is, most "phangirls" are either unaware of this or do not care, as they have all their Mary Sues or Sue-ified Christines brushing their hair and, miraculously, their "long, luscious curls" remain longer and more luscious than ever. I guess all of these people have thin, stick-straight hair, huh?

♪ ♪ ♪

Humming quietly to herself, Silvie stepped out from behind her dressing screen and busied herself by tying her long, white bathrobe shut so as to hide the lacey white ensemble that resembles a corset of sorts, complete with a matching garter belt and stockings. This outfit, much like the ones of the ballet girl's seen earlier, is quite out of place in 1871. However, it shows off the sexy female lead's legs, chassis, and more, so it's all good.

The new prima donna, who appeared not to have noticed the sudden darkness, had just about managed to get her robe tied when, from every conceivable direction, a turbulent voice thundered:

"_Incompetent worm!_

_This foolish human,_

_Prying at _your _secrets!_"

Silvie winced as she glanced around, uttering what any sensible person would have said in her situation. "Oh, shi –"

"_Dis_gus_ting stink pig!_

_This large-headed creature,_

_Thinking he can outwit meeeeee!_"

With a gigantic smile plastered across her face, Silvie unconsciously coiled a dark, curly lock around her finger as she desperately racked her brain for an excuse for Dibier's behavior. Dibier's behavior, however, was quite inexcusable. He _did_, after all, plan on doing not nice things to her pixie. And, in Silvie's opinion, it was the Vicomte's own gosh-darned fault if he got himself DOOMed because he should have known that, as a being of unimaginably divine and ethereal abilities that was sent by a dead yet dearly beloved relative, the pixie was sure to be with Silvie at all times. Still, Silvie didn't want her guardian to get the wrong idea – she and Dibier were _not _going out. Vicomte or no, cute or not, rich or not, Silvie was not about to date that annoying little – Wait. He was _rich? And _cute? And a Vicomte… Well, she would certainly have to take _this _into serious – or as serious as Silvie ever got – consideration. But right now she would deal with her temperamental fairy.

"_Pixie, it's you!_

_Oh, please, don't hurt me!_

_Your wrath is so mighty!_

"_Honestly, he means nothing to me!_

_Really, we're just good friends!_"

Her pixie seemed highly delighted to hear his pupil so frightened at the thought of facing his wrath – for his wrath _was_, of course, a terribly mighty thing. In fact, he took it as a compliment and, as a result, his tone grew increasingly haughty, which is quite amazing if one considers how arrogant it was to begin with.

"_Sniveling child, you're amusing._

_And I shall reward your plea._

_Gaze at your filthy reflection,_

_And you'll…see…me!_"

"Yaaaaah!" Silvie yelped as she turned to see the foggy image of her dear little pixie materialize before her eyes in her sparkling, full-length mirror. Or…what could be called a pixie, I suppose, although this writer hasn't seen anything that looked less like a pixie. The thin figure that stood in Silvie's mirror was at least seven feet tall, easily towering over the small singer. Swathed in a long black cloak, the "pixie" grinned sinisterly from beneath a black fedora, his gray-violet eyes narrowed – one behind the glowing white half of a mask – as he watched his terrified singer. Unlike most human beings, Silvie lacked the common sense that would have told her right away that the person reflected in her mirror was anything _but _her dear little pixie, that she had been seriously mislead, and that it would be wise to turn and run screaming right about now. Then again, if Silvie had common sense, the story would be no more, and so she gazed into her magnificent mirror. Her large and glazed eyes, slightly agape mouth, and a dainty trail of saliva that trickled down her pretty chin completed the awed/stoned look that all Christines (including their reincarnates) excelled in.

Silvie began walking toward her mirror as a mysterious mist suddenly filled her room. There could be several explanations for this mist, either 1) It was all the director's idea because he wanted the scene to look spookier, 2) Someone was spraying for bugs since pesticides weren't illegal in 1871, or 3) One of M. Violet's spoke machines was on the fritz again. Whatever the reason, the mist was quite thick, making it rather difficult to breathe.

"_Dear li – _" coughed Silvie "—_ttle pixie,_

_C-c-ome out ri-ight now!_

_This fog is getting to m-me!_

"_D-dear little p-p-ixie,_

_Ple-e-ase hurry up!_

_Don't forg-get my asth-m-ma! _"

Upon hearing the singer's plea, the dear little pixie's smirk widened and he began to utter an eerily beautiful mantra.

"_I'm not a pixie…_

_I am your Angel of Music!_"

At this, Silvie broke out of her trance and stomped her little foot in anger.

"How many times to I have to tell you?" she demanded irritably, her hands balled into fists and placed on her hips. "You _can't _be an angel cuz _I _don't believe in angels! Ah'm a good Atheist, Ah am! An' Ah washed me 'ands an' face b'fore Ah come."

Her pixie stared, blinking in confusion. After several long moments of consideration, he shook his head, choosing to ignore his pupil, and continued his hypnotic chant.

"_I'm not a pixie…_

_I am your Angel of Music!_"

At once Silvie was drained of her anger, her eyes becoming as wide as saucers and her gray irises beginning to swirl and spiral – much like what happens in very silly cartoons whenever someone falls under hypnosis. Without thinking, she reached out for her mirror and began to move forward, albeit, she took her grand old time in doing so.

♪ ♪ ♪

Meanwhile, outside Silvie's dressing room, Dibier had returned, hauling 150 pounds of paranormal investigating equipment with him. Without even considering that the female occupant of the room may be asleep or possibly even undressing, the viscount placed a hand upon the knob and pulled. The door didn't budge.

"What the…" Raising a hand, he rapped his knuckles against the door. "Silvie? Is this about earlier? Look, I'm sorry about the pixie and all."

No response.

"I swear I won't _really _hurt it. I just wanna take a _look _at it."

Not a sound issued from the room. Dibier shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Finally, he could take not a second more of the suspense and began to pound on the door.

"Silvie! Come on!" he begged pathetically. "This is a scientific breakthrough we're talking about, here! Just let me in!"

"_I'm not a pixie…_"

"Silvie? Why are you talking to yourself? Did you," he added in an undertone, "forget to take your pills again?"

"_I am your Angel of Music!_"

"What? Bigfoot, is that you? If you ate Silvie, I swear I'll …I'll…_man_, what _am _I gonna do? Oh! I'll send my sister after you! Yeah, you won't like that, will you? Huh? _Huh? _**_Talk to meeeeeeeee!_**"

♪ ♪ ♪

As she finally reached her mirror, Silvie gazed dreamily into the eyes of her teacher. It never registered in her mind that, as she took a thoughtless step forward, the cool surface of the glass was not there to greet her and that she stepped through the mirror so easily that it was almost as if it wasn't there at all.

Silvie turned around to look at her dressing room, which was now nothing more than a distant memory, only to find it engulfed in fog. When she faced forward again a vast stone passageway greeted her. Oddly, instead of being dark and spooky like one would expect, the passage was brightly lit by… a bunch of seemingly severed, golden arms holding candelabras. To add to the strangeness of it all, the arms would bend from time to time, moving out of the way so people could pass through without receiving a concussion or third-degree burn.

Her dear little pixie (who Silvie was beginning to wonder if he was really a pixie at all) held out a strange, silvery, finger-less hand, but Silvie ignored it. Instead, she gazed at the golden arms for several seconds, narrowed her eyes, and turned to her magical companion.

"You _stole _those off of _Beauty and the Beast_, didn't you?" she accused, pointing to the arms.

Her pixie's eyes darted nervously back and forth between Silvie and the candelabras.

"…no," he answered bluntly. And, taking her dainty hand in his sharp, metallic one, he declared, "No more questions! Now sing! Sing for Zi – your…geh…_pixie!_ "

Not wanting to waste another second, his metal arm shot out. The moment he had snatched up Silvie's small hand, an enormous blast of a terrifying, tremulous, incredibly '80s sounding chord sounded from an invisible pipe organ, rocking the corridor.

_**DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!**_

_**DUNDUNDUNDUNDUUUUUUUUN!**_

_**DUNDUN!**_

Oddly enough, even though she was barely wearing any makeup to begin with, Silvie's eye shadow becomes rapidly darker as the seconds pass. Even more odd is the fact that her hair, though it was pulled back in a ponytail before, has suddenly hanging loose around her shoulders like some weird mushroom thing. Odder still is that, rather than sing the lyrics out loud like she had been doing, Silvie apparently decided that a change was in order and chose to sing them…_in her head._ What would one call that, exactly? Sing-thinking? Thought-singing? Sinking? Thinging? Whatever it's called, Silvie did it, her eyes wide and unblinking all the while.

I can't believe all this… 

_It can't be true…_

_My pixie and the ghost_

_Are one in two._

Helpless to the music, Silvie clapped twice in time with the beat. The ghost kept stealing glances at Silvie, as if he expected her to suddenly perform a vanishing trick. He would then look forward again – presumably so that he didn't bump into a candelabra that was too slow to bend out of the way in time – with a _very _smoldering look.

_Yet now I see the proof _

_And doubt has fled…_

Again Silvie did the double clappity-clap along with the beat thing as they turned the corner and made their way down a curving staircase. Even though the ghost had the time to obtain a lit torch, exchanged hands holding Silvie, and lead the soprano part way down the staircase – which means that either he's a pretty nifty guy or that her singing is terribly slow – Silvie continued to thought-sing as if nothing had happened.

_The ghost that haunts this Opéra is there…_

_Inside my head!_

The pair found themselves at the top of a set of steps that lead further down into the bowels of the earth. At this point the author scowled, unsure of why she had written what she had just written because she didn't care for that particular phrase, mostly due to the fact that it made her think of terribly unpleasant things. However, it seemed to fit here, so she used it.

Meanwhile, back in parodyland, Silvie looked down the stairway to see that a beautiful **_WHITE _**horse – white, not black; and you knew it was white and not gray because its nose was completely pink instead of black – was tethered to an unseen post at the bottom of the stairs. Although no one mentions it out loud, the animal's name was César, and although he was no Mr. Ed, he was a pretty talented horse anyway. After all, he happened to have had acquired a very important role in the Opera House's production of the _Profeta _a while back. César did very well in his debut and would have gone on to be replace Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow in those pirate movies, make his own hit record, and eventually discover the cure for cancer, making him even _bigger _than Mr. Ed. That is, of course, had the Opéra Ghost not kidnapped him. But such is life. And anyway the ghost was about to sing, and so everything else was irrelevant.

"_In spite of meddling fools_

_And Dib monkeys_

_Your thoughts have not been swayed –_

_You obey me!_

"_Don't think of turning back!_

_For when you've fled…_

_The ghost that haunts this Opéra is still…_

_Inside your head!_

"Aww, what a pretty horsy!" Silvie cooed, reaching out to stroke the animal's gleaming mane. César nickered appreciatively as if to say 'Thanks, babe. You're not too bad yourself.' and began sniffing the singer's silky curls. 'And who _does _your hair?'

"Yes, yes," sighed Silvie's ghostly companion. "The filthy hair-beast is magical – _now let's get moving!_"

Before the girl could even react, two of the ghost's numerous silver claws grabbed her around the waist and threw her on top of the horse. César issued a shocked whinny just as Silvie let out an equally surprised yelp; the ghost rolled his eyes and seized the reins and began to lead the two down a slippery slope. Well, he _tried _to, anyway. For some reason César decided that he wasn't up to moving, most likely because he knew the harm the ghost had done to his career, either that or he was simply offended by the 'filthy hair-beast' remark.

"Grr…_move_, you stinking animal!" the ghost shouting, giving a furious tug on the reins. César remained rooted to the spot, appearing to be bored out of his mind.

"_Why _did I think this was a good idea?" the ghost asked himself. "We're wasting time, you miserable –"

"I don't think that's the best way t –" Silvie began.

"_Silence!_" the ghost ordered, whipping around to flash her a glare. Turning back to the horse, he threatened, "If you _don't_ move, I'll let my robot come and play with you."

Apparently this was a terrifying proposition as César's began to plough forward with voracious speed.

"Y'know, this really wasn't necessary," Silvie said quietly to the ghost. "The horse 'n all. I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own –"

"You _dare _question _my _methods of transportation?"

"No! No, of course n–"

"And what did I tell you to do that you're…not…doing…right now?"

"Huh?" asked Silvie, scrunching her nose in confusion. "Oh…"

Despite the fact that she was riding a horse and therefore she have been quite unable to do any singing of any kind, Silvie opened her mouth and began continue the previous tune.

"_Green skin and lack of ears – _

_It's mindboggling!_

_Yet despite all of this –_"

"_I'm a-mazing!_" put in the ghost.

They turned the corner to see, in the words of Christine Daaé, 'a vast, glassy lake' stretched out before them. It would have been a lot spookier had a dozen or so waterproof candles hadn't been rising from the black waters, brightening up the caverns considerably. Leaving the distraught César tethered to another unseen post, the ghost grasped Silvie's arm and shoved her into a long purple boat of some sort – a gondola that seemed to be hovering in mid-air, just inches above the freezing waters.

"_And as I/you think of this,_

_I/you fill with dread –_

_The ghost that haunts this Opéra is there…_

_Inside my/your head! _"

As the purple gondola glided silently across the lake, spooky disembodied voices were heard echoing eerily as their words bounced off of the tunnel walls.

"_Bow down…to the ghost of the Opéra… _"

An out-of -place troop of electric guitars began to play as Silvie looked around in wonder.

"_I bow…to the ghost of the Opéra…_"

And since the fourth verse of the song is completely unimportant – and totally wasn't, like, all that good to begin with – Silvie skipped it and cut straight to her scarily high-pitched cadenza with her ghostly companion barking orders all the while.

"Sing, my human stink-slave," the ghost encourage, his purple eyes glittering wickedly as he steered the hovering gondola past a waterproof candle.

With wary uncertainty, Silvie carried her voice higher. Strangely, the pipe organ, violins, and out-of-place electric guitars seemed to grow louder as Silvie's singing grew higher pitched.

"Sing for Z—me…" the ghost urged in a low hiss. "Yesss…sing, my human stink-slave!"

Silvie glanced back at him fearfully, her mouth stretched in a scream as she threw herself into the music. The ghost smiled maliciously, seemingly unaware of the singer's peril.

"_Sing for ZIM!_"

As Silvie inched toward the thrilling high E – oh, no, wait. This is a parody of the movie, so it wouldn't be a high E, it would be an E flat since Emmy Rossum couldn't _hit _the high E, so they _changed _it rather than search for an equally attractive woman who _could _hit it. Worse yet, the pipe organ, violins, and out-of-place electric guitars increased their volume to the maximum so as to hide the fact that the note Silvie hit – and she did indeed hit it, openly, I might add – was a disappointing E flat.

All the while the author was complaining about Emmy Rossum's flaws as a singer, the purple gondola floated up to the shore of the lake. Lit by thousands of candles – some waterproof, some not – the cave was made up of a series of grottos that, Silvie saw upon closer inspection, each served as a different room. Almost like the layout of a house, there was a sitting room, a drawing room, library… Silvie's mouth fell open in awe as her eyes came to rest upon an enormous silver pipe organ. It had somehow been squeezed into a grotto that undoubtedly served as a music room, as the cavern was filled with various instruments – a viola, a violin, and, oddly, a trombone.

Without saying a word – and without bothering to help Silvie out of the boat, the jerk – the ghost climbed out of the gondola, being careful not to let the smallest droplet of water touch his person, and stepped onto the shore with ease. Striding in to the grotto that acted as a sitting room, he turned about. With otherworldly grace, removed his fedora, twirled it about for a time, and then threw it in the corner without a second thought – the second thought being that it could have landed on one of the many candelabras and set the room on fire. Silvie could now see why the ghost hadn't removed his hat earlier – that black pompadour hairdo did nothing for him.

An awkward silence followed.

Silvie looked around with an expression of impressed bemusement on her face.

The ghost cleared his throat extravagantly.

"_Welcome to my_

_Secret spooky lair of DOOM._

_Not many are permitted to come here,_

_So don't touch a thing_

_Or I'll melt your face off_

_Or something…_

_Something…_"

Uncertain, Silvie attempted to climb out of the gondola, but only succeeded in rocking the long purple boat and splashing herself. The ghost ignored her, too caught up in his own brilliance to notice anything aside from himself for the time being.

"_You shall serve in_

_My greatest, most amazing plan!_

_And then I shall fin'lly receive_

_All the praise I deserve_

_For succeeding in_

_My mission…_

_My mission…_"

"Yes, and perhaps then I'll at last be rid of you," remarked a voice. It was a man's voice. Quite angelic, in fact, though scathing sarcasm tarnished it ever so slightly. The ghost whipped around, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Heh?"

"You heard me," the angelic voice continued, sounding closer this time. "I give you room and board in my lair and _you _have seen fit to be as ungrateful as…" He paused and Silvie sensed that he was staring at her as he chose his next words. "As…humanly…possible."

"I feel no need to show respect for a _huuuuuman_," spat the ghost, folding his arms indignantly.

"Ha!" hissed the voice. "Human indeed!" Silvie gasped as an impossibly tall figure detached itself from the shadows and stalked toward the ghost. It easily towered over the green-skinned apparition, giving off an air of unimaginable power as it glared downward, its glowing yellow eyes narrowed behind a full black mask. "You ridiculous urchin," it scolded, raising a painfully thin arm to shake a skeletal finger at the ghost. "If I recall correctly, it took several _weeks _to convince _you _that I was human!"

"_You _made it confusing with your…" the ghost struggled to find the right words. "…talk about…what was it? "Angels" and "death" and "corpses." So of course not even someone of _my _brilliance knew what you were!"

The tall, thin man fumed at the ghost for several seconds, his inhumanly thin hands balled into fists of rage, before his eyes darted to Silvie who had given up all hope of ever exiting the boat.

"Aren't you going to introduce me?" he challenged, amusement lacing his beautiful voice.

"What?" the ghost asked dumbly, cocking his head to once side.

Silently the nameless man pointed a long, bony finger at the pretty little girl that was stationed in the gondola. The ghost gritted his teeth but complied nonetheless, albeit, halfheartedly.

"Erik, this is my filthy stink-slave…Silvie. Silvie, this is my _horrible _slumlord…Erik."

"Yes, yes, I'm _horrible_," Erik muttered. "I only allowed you to take up residence in my –" the next words he spoke rather disdainfully "—_humble _abode when no one else would. Oh, certainly, I'm the most horrific creature to walk this earth! No _wonder _she wouldn't marry me, as I am _so _hopelessly horrible."

"Exactly," agreed the ghost, not getting the sarcasm at all.

"Who…the heck are _you?_" Silvie spoke up suddenly.

The lanky man let out a chilling, yet undeniably beauteous laugh.

"Erik is many things, my dear," he answered calmly, suddenly speaking in third person. "Some have called him a genius, others a monster. One," he continued, his lovely voice growing mournful, "even called him an angel."

"But you're human?" Silvie inquired.

"There is no craft I cannot master, my residence is a house with a false bottom underneath an opéra house, and I have a face so painfully ghastly that my own mother wept at the very thought of it…but, yes, _ma petite_, I suppose I am human."

"Yes, yes," the ghost sighed. "That's very nice. Now be gone with you! My stink slave and I have much to do!"

The strange, thin man eyed him scornfully.

"Mademoiselle," Erik began at last with eerie calm, "it has been a pleasure meeting you. Although I feel I should warn you to do everything in your power not to be coerced by this…man. While I haven't a care for him and am barely familiar with you at all, I would hate to see either one of you suffer as I have." He turned to leave. "Oh! And, dear, if you're going to venture into the lake, _do _take care not to arouse the Giant Squid."

Silvie's eyes widened. "Whaaat...?"

"He's not normally dangerous," Erik assured her quite placidly as he strode out of the cave. "It's just that he gets cranky when his nap is disturbed."

And with that, he disappeared as quietly as he had entered.

The ghost shook his head.

"_Fi_nally…" With a look of absolute smugness spreading across his face, the ghost turned to his pupil, fully intent of launching into his plan and explaining exactly why she needs to be involved at all. He drew away, however, when he took in the girl's terrified appearance and silently cursed that miserable Erik human for telling Silvie all about the Giant Squid. Deciding that, no matter how much _he _liked it, dramatic was not the way to go, the ghost strode down to the shore of the lake, deftly lifted Silvie from the boat with the aid of his odd metal claws, and carried her to the music room.

The girl looked around, still quite afraid but slightly less paranoid than before. Tentatively she glanced up at her teacher who offered her a warm, if rather forced, smile in return. If his own amazing power would not sweep her off her feet, then perhaps his equally amazing powers of persuasion would.

"_This plan is the_

_Greatest of my vast skills._

_Unless, of course,_

_You count laser weasels._

There is much for you to see 

_If you only side with me…_"

Gifting her with a falsely charming smile, the ghost extended a hand – this time a black-gloved claw – and showed Silvie around his pad.

"_There is no re-son_

_For any a-larm._

_Join my side and_

_You'll see minimal harm._"

He paused in front of a large worktable and watched as Silvie pondered over the countless number of papers that had been strewn across the table. Each crude sketch depicted what appeared to be Silvie herself in a black, corset-like outfit and a skirt made of fine yellow lace and standing in front of a crowd of cheering, drooling people. The girl arched an eyebrow at the childish scribbles and looked up at her teacher expectantly. He must not have noticed as he made several grand gestures and continued his song.

"_Do not think of fear._

_It is me you should revere!_

_Do not think at all; just remain standing still,_

_Just stay calm as I bend you to my will_."

Though she was somewhat put off – not to mention severely freaked out by a large model of the Opéra House complete with tiny dolls crafted to look exactly like minute replicas of Silvie, Calamari, Mlle. Gazette, even the crystal chandelier – Silvie decided it was best to humor the ghost. She smiled a wide, not entirely convincing smile and he grinned back.

"_Succumb to my amazing might –_

_It's real easy!_"

He released her hands and began to ascend a stone set of stairs that led to his massive (pipe) organ. Suddenly, he turned around and looked directly into her eyes, his song growing more intense as it progressed.

"_Succumb to a power you can't resist!_

_Succumb and you will fin'lly get the gist…_"

A pause as he watched Silvie's face alight with understanding. His eyes widened expectantly and at last the girl gave the slightest of nods and the ghost smiled, his confidence fully restored – not that it had been very weak to begin with.

"_There's no way you could possibly resist. _"

He offered a gloved hand and this time she accepted it without hesitation. They glided past the pipe organ, barely noticing the enormous silver instrument as the lulling music embraced them both in a fine veil of comfort.

"_All I want is_

_Total world dom'nation._

_Say the word and_

_I'll start the invasion._"

In a matter of seconds Silvie found herself only inches away from his face. Her eyes trained automatically to the mask, which seemed to glow in the same radioactive manner as her poofy, white "Remember Me" dress.

"_Learn to trust in me!_

_Just do it, and you shall see,_"

he sang, twirling her around with the help of several of his silver appendages. Surprised by the unexpected movement, Silvie let out a little yelp and barely prevented herself from tumbling to the cold, stone floor. After brushing off her lacy white robe, she flashed the ghost a nervous smile and gestured for him to continue.

"Eh…" he began uncertainly.

"_An amazing world where you'll never need pills…_

_Just say yes and I'll bend you to my will._"

Apparently, the ghost didn't feel that this was convincing enough for he started to throw attractive proposals at Silvie.

"_You'll be rich, you'll be famous,_

_You'll have human slaves!_

_That's an offer that no one could refuse!_"

In one fluid movement – and once again with assistance from his spidery legs – the ghost leapt through the air and landed gracefully on the organ bench, one claw clenched in a fist, the other raised dramatically skyward.

"_You'll be great –_

_The world will fall to it's **KNEES!**_"

Gasping from the amount of energy he put into that last note, the ghost turned his back to Silvie and murmured wistfully to himself:

"_Then, at last, it will belong…to me…_"

Silvie was picking at a hangnail when the ghost turned back around. He huffed, stood akimbo, and glared for several seconds before she finally realized that she was, in fact, being huffed, akimbo-ed, and glared at.

"Huh? Oh. Sorry," she apologized offhandedly. "Please, continue."

But the ghost was still pretty ticked off at her, and he expressed his anger by seizing her lily-white wrist and spinning her around until her back was but an inch away from him. Then, very slowly, he released her and allowed his silvery appendages to slide around her waist.

Suddenly, without warning, Silvie's hand shot out and grabbed one of the metal claws before it could go any further.

"Keep it above the waist, hot shot," she warned before thrusting the appendage back at him.

The ghost tilted his head to one side, deeply confused.

"Eh?"

"Oh," said Silvie, startled. "Never mind. Resume doing…um…whatever."

Without another word (and a haughty toss of the head), the ghost resumed doing exactly what he had been doing. And that was…singing. Not…something else. Singing. Still, he was a little too close for comfort for both Silvie and himself, but if that was what it took to gain control over someone, then the ghost would do it.

"_Do not be scared._

_Resistance will be noted._

_Fear is pointless,_

_For I'll not be goaded._"

Gingerly, shaking a little from nervousness, Silvie reached up and hovered her small hand just above the ghost's unmasked cheek, this completing the famous pose that the musical _the Phantom of the Opera _is most known for.

"_No matter what you do,_

_There's no way I'll release you!_"

Saying, rather, singing this, he spun her around and grasped her hands tightly.

"_Human girl afraid of ev'ry little thrill…_

_Just wait until I bend you to my will._"

Still maintaining a vice grip on her hands, the ghost dragged his singer past the pipe organ to another grotto, one whose entrance was blocked off by a long, crimson drapery. Silvie scrutinized it, intrigued. The ghost gifted her with a secretive smirk as he wound his claws into the scarlet material and gave a mighty tug.

The curtain fell away.

Silvie gaped.

The ghost beamed smugly.

Before them stood a waxen, utterly perfect replica of Silvie, looking like a _sfumato _painting behind a misty bridal veil. The tiny body of the mannequin was bedecked in a beautiful dress with a glistening bodice. It was decidedly pure white, like the first snowfall, to remind us all that Silvie was still, shall we say, innocent.

"Oooh…preeeety…" commented Silvie, not freaked out in the least as she leaned forward to get a better look at her twin. This turned out to be a bad idea, however. As luck would have it, at that exact same moment, the dummy (not Silvie, the mannequin) lurched forward, its forehead colliding with Silvie's own with a resounding _DOINK!_

Silvie's eyes rolled skyward.

"Urgh…" she muttered and collapsed.

The ghost sighed.

"Stupid human… Gnomes!" he called, at once regaining his old vigor. At once several robotic lawn ornaments appeared at his side. "Cart the earth girl off to bed! And be quick about it!"

The bug-eyed garden gnomes showed no sign of hearing his request, but they complied anyway. Lifting Silvie's limp form with ease, they hauled her off to one of the more secluded grottos, hitting her head on several inconveniently placed tassels along the way. The ghost followed closely behind. At last the odd party arrived at a large pewter bed that was, strangely enough, in the shape of an ostrich. The gnomes wasted no time in tossing the unconscious Silvie onto the mountain of velvet poufs and blankets, and hurrying away.

The ghost stared at the sleeping girl, noticing that a large bump was already beginning to form on her forehead from where the dummy hit her. Despite his disgust, he knew he needed the human if his mission was ever going to succeed. And so, once again using his odd metal appendages instead of just walking, he loomed over Silvie's bedside and sang.

"_Hope is lost, that is, of course, until…_

_I succeed and bend you…to…my…will…_"

♪ ♪ ♪

Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. Like I said before, it was difficult rewriting the lyrics to the two songs the musical is most known for. 9.6;;;

**Notes**

...the "pixie" grinned sinisterly from beneath a black fedora - I have returned the Phatom's fedora. Despite it not fitting in with the time period at all, it, IMHO, fits the Phantom perfectly and it annoyed me greatly that Gerard Butler did not have one in the movie. At first I thought it was because he didn't look good in hats, but then I saw a photo manip. of him wearing one and...well, needless to say, he looked very nice, which only ticked me of even more. So, I decided to restore the fedora for that reason and because Zim just looks too cool in hats.

The awed/stoned look - you cannot be a Christine unless you can pull of this look. Actually, you can't be Emmy!Christine or Brightman!Christine unless you can pull off this look.

The mysterious mist - I liked it, but I kinda thought they overdid it in the movie, so I played on that. Hopefully it was funny.

"Ah'm a good Atheist, Ah am! An' Ah washed me 'ands an' face b'fore Ah come" - _My Fair Lady_ quote! Which was the only reason why "Angel of Music" was changed to "dear little pixie."

A bunch of seemingly severed, golden arms holding candelabras - actually, I found these much creepier than a dark, spooky passageway. Dude, they moved .

"You _stole _those off of _Beauty and the Beast_, didn't you?" - he did . I swear! Look for them!

The incredibly '80s sounding chord - is it just me, or does the music to the title song in the 2004 movie sound more '80s than the music in the original London cast recording which was _written _in the '80s?

Silvie's rapidly darkening eyeshadow - X3! Okay, seriously, look for this the next time you watch the movie. When Emmy first goes through the mirror, she had practically no makeup on and her hair is tied back. Then, suddenly, she's got this dark eye shadow and eyeliner on and her hair is down! QLF? But I'm kinda glad they did that, cuz it give me something to spoof on in this parody. :D

The clappity-claps - these are only further proof that the song is totally and complete '80s.

César - anyone who has ever read the original novel the _Phantom of the Opera_ by Gaston Leroux...you will totally get this and have probably started building a little shrine to me. For those of you who haven't...WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING READING THIS? THERE ARE MUCH BETTER BOOKS YOU COULD BE READING! Ahem. That is to say, in the original novel, Christine is lead down to the Phantom's lair on a white horse named César who did indeed play a role in the opera the _Profeta_ . And yes, using animals in live theatre was a perfectly normal occurrence, especially at a place as famous as the Opéra Populair. They may have had a horse lead Emmy down to the Phantom's lair in the movie, but he wasn't white and so, while I appreciated the nod toward the book, I was kinda annoyed. The black horse must emphasize that whole "dark desire" thing, I guess. But that one critic who said it was illogical and not in the musical at all irked me even more. Especially since it was clear that he'd never read the book. XP

Out-of -place troop of electric guitars - as much as I like the electric guitar, it just didn't fit in here. Not with the time period, not with the song (no matter how '80s-sounding it was).

Skipping fourth verse - they cut it! They bloody cut it and that wasn't fair. Many Phantom fans were ticked at this, so this is sorta my way of agreeing with them. They shouldn't have cut it. But think of it this way, guys: Did we _really_ wanna hear Emmy and Gerik botch up another set of lyrics?

E flat - I have nothing to say about this except that it is absolutely, 100 percent true.

An awkward silence followed - it was awkward. I just wanted Gerik to say "Okee dokee! We're heeere! And now...I am taking off...my cape!" I just think he could've done that while he was singing, y'know?

Erik - hooray for the real Opera Ghost! In case you are wondering, yes, Erik is the name of the Phantom of the Opera. He is called that in every version I have seen, save for the musical since Andrew Lloyd Webber sees fit not to mention the fact. 9.9; His _would_ be the most famous adaptation... But anyway, I digress. Erik is from Gaston Leroux's novel -- the very first version of Phantom -- and his description is accurate. Not only was half of Original!Erik's face deformed, it was his entire body. He even says that he is "made up of death from head to foot." He's supposed to look like a skeleton, you see. No nose, sallow skin, very thin body, and glowing yellow eyes that can only be seen in the dark. And he worse a full, black mask. Not a white one, not half a white one, and not a quarter of a white one like Gerik has. He's a little...crazy...but in an appealing way, at least to me. And he is the Phantom that reminds me of Zim the most. His personality, his quirks, even his description, somewhat. He even speaks in third person from time to time! Really, save for the fact that Erik is very tall, a genius at practically everything he does, and makes music, he and Zim are very much alike. To me, anyway. :D I threw him in here because I wanted to pay homage to Leroux and get the feel of writing his character, as I intent to write an entirely Leroux-based fic in the near future. Also, he makes a fun comic relief. He and Gir even get to have a tea party together.

"...No _wonder _she wouldn't marry me, as I am _so _hopelessly horrible" - yes, he is talking about Christine, just in case no one got that.

The Giant Squid - also known as the Squid of Lake Averne (the lake that's underneath the Paris Opera House), he is one big in-joke over at PhantomFans(dot)net. I am not entirely sure where he came from or who first thought of him, just that it is a huge running gag that never ceases to get a few laughs. Basically, in Leroux's novel, he mentions there being a monster at the bottom of the lake. We assume that the monster is Erik, but at some point someone got to thinking that it just might be something else. And thus, the Giant Squid of Lake Averne came to be. I do not own him, but intend to bring him up again before this fic is over.

His massive (pipe) organ – "Every time Erik gets bored, he goes down to his lair and plays with his organ." X3! Another running gag over at PFN. If you get it, you get it. If you don't, then...too bad. I'm not getting into those kinds of details.

_Sfumato_ - it's the style Leonardo Da Vinci was most known for. :D

Inconveniently placed tassels - watch the movie. Right after Emmy faints from seeing the wax dummy, Gerik picks her up and carries her off to bed in a most gentlemanly fashion. However, the romantic mood of the scene is somewhat ruined when he walks past this hanging tassel and it hits Emmy right in the head. XD I'm serious, watch the movie; you'll se what I mean.


	4. Comic Relief

**Chapter III **

_**When All Else Fails, Bring in the Comic Relief**_

Before we begin, I'd like to take the time to respond to several reviews that I couldn't ignore – not that I exactly ignore reviews to begin with.

**Sideshow Sullen:** Don't worry about it; headaches are a perfectly good reason to sound snippy. Oooh, you know of (Opera singing)? Are you part of the community or do you just know of the joke? Also, I'm pleased to hear that you thought I kept Erik in character. He's not the easiest guy to write. 9.6;

**Kitsune Ryune: **Honestly, parts of _me_ were saying it was a bad idea, but they were quickly destroyed by the parts of me that said it was a good idea, which, incidentally, are the same parts that to push the shiny button even though the sign says not to. And I've always thought that Erik would bode well with the IZ cast. Glad to hear that somebody agrees. :D I think I always knew that I was gonna put him in the parody, but for a time I was somewhat uneasy with the idea because I figured that a lot of people would just go "Umm…WTF? Who IS this guy? This is stupid." So, yeah, in short, I'm relieved to know that everyone's okay with him being in the fic.

**gryps incedio:** I noticed that about Emmy Rossum, too, particularly during the line "…_to put you from my mind._" Her voice totally cracks on the word "my," making her sound like she said "my-eee" or something. I don't think Emmy has a terribly _awful _voice, just that her upper register is rather weak and that she should sing other songs aside from the ones in PotO. Gerard Butler…I can't really blame him at all, I mean, he could have turned down the job but that was about all he could have done. The never had a vocal lesson in his life and he smokes. But, OMG, that totally makes him the _perfect_ Phantom. 9.9 I think I'm more annoyed by the annoying fangirls who claim that Emmy and Gerry are amazingly talented vocalists and that they're better than the people on Broadway and then jump on myself and others who try to tell them otherwise. Biyotch, please. Wow. That turned into a rant rather quickly, didn't it? Uh, sorry. Didn't mean to do that. **  
**

That said, one more thing before I leave you to the madness. Am I the only one who thinks that Tim Burton would make an excellent Phantom movie based on Leroux's book? I would love to see it in that wonderful claymation style of his, but Leroux's PotO isn't exactly a book for kids, thus I think it would do better if he got actual people for the cast. But that's just me. Anybody else wanna get in on this?

♪ ♪ ♪

It made absolutely no sense to Tyia. She had just been lounging about the ballet dormitories and minding her own business when suddenly the Vicomte de Dibier came barreling through the doors yelling for her. Tyia was puzzled at fist, but soon came to the conclusion that the viscount wanted to know where Silvie was since he obviously still thought the girl a witch. Being the good little sister that she was, Tyia had quickly karate chopped his enormous head and told him that he could just forget about Silvie cuz she wasn't interested and, quite frankly, neither was she. By 'she' I mean 'Tyia,' of course.

The viscount had at once launched into an explanation about pixies and Bigfoot and hearing voices in Silvie's room that didn't belong to Silvie. By now, Tyia was beginning to feel sympathetic for the poor kid, and so she patted his large cranium, telling him that everything was okay and asking if he would like to see Silvie's doctor or perhaps even borrow some of her pills?

The boy had shaken his gargantuan head and, sighing in frustration, dashed out of the room yelling for anyone who would come to his assistance. Tyia had simply shrugged and gone back to her lounging. She was just about to write in her super secret diary when she realized that she was missing something of extreme importance: her pencil. Surly everyone knows the importance of a pencil! Tyia let out a piercing shriek and ran around in circles for several minutes. Upon realizing that this was not doing her a bit of good, she promptly stopped and went about interrogating each and every dancer in the vicinity. No one had her pencil, although several offered to let her borrow theirs. Those imbeciles obviously did not know the importance of one's own, personal writing utensil. When none of the other dancers knew where her pencil was, Tyia knew that only once person could possibly be responsible for it's strange disappearance. And _that _was how Tyia came to find herself standing in the doorway of her sister's – formerly Calamari's – dressing room.

"Silvie? Yoo hooooo, Silvie? Have you seen my…good…pen…cil…"

Tyia stared around the darkened room, furrowing her brow in confusion. She was certain she had seen Silvie retire to her dressing room, and yet her sister was no where to be seen. The room was completely devoid of life save for the billions upon billions of germs that lived in the very air Tyia was breathing, but nobody counted them.

"Look, you don't have to hide, Silvie. It wasn't like I was accusingyou of _stealing _the pencil or anything. I just wanted to know if you'd _seen _it. You can come out now."

Her only response was silence.

With one hand on her hip and the other resting on the doorknob, Tyia narrowed her blue eyes in suspicion.

"_Ohhh_, oh, _I _get it," she declared knowingly. "You really _did _steal my pencil and now you're afraid to face me! Shame on you, Silvie! Shame on _you!_"

Not a soul tried to defend the accusation, which only angered Tyia further. She stomped her foot in indignation.

"Gosh, I can't _believe _you!" she exclaimed, storming defiantly into the room. "My own sister or all things… how could you?"

She paused in her tirade to search for the tacit Silvie, but her sister proved evasive. After looking under the feinting couch, behind a painting of Calamari, and a in a series of other implausible yet comical hiding places, Tyia was ready to call it quits and assume that her sister had gone off snogging with that young Vicomte when her eye caught something.

The mirror.

A soft light was emitting from around the edges of Silvie's gilded, full-length mirror.

"'Ello," Tyia whispered suspiciously. "Whot's all this, then…?"

Still in her ballet shoes and tutu, Tyia crept over to the massive looking-glass and, placing an index finger to her chin, contemplated the mysterious glow that seemed to surround it. Suddenly, striking the pose of a ninja, her arm shot out…

"Hi-yah!"

…and she karate chopped the mirror. It did not shatter into a thousands pieces as Tyia had hoped, but as the mirror shuddered from the impact, its left side broke free of its golden frame and moved away, sliding into the adjacent wall.

Tyia gaped.

"What the heck…?"

Curiosity overruling fear, she slid the mirror to the right until there was just enough space for a skinny ballerina to slip through. Without hesitation, Tyia began to walk through the small opening, pausing only to step on the discarded purple rose that lay in front of looking glass. Once on the other side, Tyia turned to look back at the mirror, only to be met with a solid wall. Confused, she reached out to touch it. The moment her fingers brushed against the rough grain of the wood, a square of violet appeared next to her hand. Her eyebrows arching in puzzlement, Tyia pressed a finger to the center of the pad and gasped. The wooden wall dissolved before her eyes, instantly replaced with…nothing. There was a wall, but it was clear. Even clearer than a window for, as we all know, even the most transparent windows have some blemishes.

"Oh my God…" Tyia breathed. "My sister's got a peeping Tom! Eww!" she shrieked, jumping away from the perfectly transparent wall. "And I'll bet he kidnapped Silvie! Darn it!" she cried, stomping her foot once again. "Now I'll never get my pencil back! Unless…" She peered down the dark and gloomy hallway behind her. "Eh. It's cold, damp, and unfamiliar, and I'm inappropriately dressed for exploring, but I don't see anything wrong with venturing down dark, spooky tunnels. Oooh," she squeaked excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'll bet it'd be even darker and spookier if I didn't bring a light! Heehee!"

No thoughts within her head but thoughts of seeking out Silvie's pervert, no dreams within her heart but dreams of getting back her pencil, Tyia turned on her heel and marched purposefully down the passageway.

Despite the muddy floor, lack of light, and nauseating smell, Tyia was happy to take part in this quest and even began to sing a cute little song.

"_Hi ho, hi ho, to sniff out creeps I go – _eee! Rat!"

Sure enough, too caught up in her mirth to notice much, Tyia had tripped over a rat that was busily gnawing on a moldy piece what might have once been bread or possibly cheese.

"Hi, Ratty!"

"Squeak!"

"I'm fine, thanks, but my sister's been kidnapped by some snarky pervert, so I'm going to find him!"

"Squeak!"

"Well, sure, I'd love to stay and chat, but my sister's been kidnapped by some snarky pervert, so I'm going to find him! I think I told you that already, but my memory's not too good, so I'm not sure… Hey, you didn't happen to see my pencil around here, did ya?"

"Squeak!"

"You _did?_" Tyia asked excitedly. "Where?"

"Squeak!"

"Heeey…wait a minute…is that my pencil? You're _eating _my _pencil? _Ratty, how could you?"

"Squeak!"

"Oh, don't gimme that," she spat angrily. "I know you don't mean it."

"Tyia…why are you talking to a rat?"

The ballerina spun around.

"Mlle. Gazette! How'd you get here?"

The small, purple-haired ballet instructor said nothing, merely grabbing Tyia roughly by the arm and shoving her down the hallway.

"Let's go."

"Aww," Tyia whined, "but I was talking to Ratty! Oh yeah, and some peeping Tom's got Silvie."

"Silvie's fine," Gaz replied, "which is more than I can say for you if you don't _get moving._"

"But aren't you the least bit curious as to why there's a secret passageway behind Silvie's – formerly Calamari's – mirror?"

"No."

"But aren't you worried that Silvie's been kidnapped?"

"No."

"But aren't you at _least _upset that somebody stole my good pencil?"

"No."

"But aren't –"

Mlle. Gazette glared up at her, one eye clenched shut, the other open and smoldering. Her hands were wrapped so tightly around her cane that it shook, threatening to snap in two. The mistress of the ballet may have been shorter than Tyia, but that had never prevented her from keeping the ballerina in line.

"If your carcass isn't in the ballet dormitory in the next ten seconds," she seethed very quietly, "I will tie you down, break both of your feet with a sledgehammer, and then set them so that they'll stick out and never point forward again."

"But won't I have perfect turn-out, then?" Tyia asked timidly.

Mlle. Gazette raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," she agreed calmly. "But people will make fun of you and say you walk like a duck, and you wouldn't like that, would you?"

Tyia gasped in horror.

"No! Not a duck! _Not a duck! Waaaaaaaaaaah!_"

And she took off for the mirror, screaming all the while.

♪ ♪ ♪

The euphoric sound of "Come on, guys!" met Tyia's ears as she pelted through the door of the ballet dormitory.

"Get lost, Keefé!" snapped a blonde ballerina, not looking up from combing her flaxen hair.

"But I made waffles!" Keefé cried happily.

"I don't care," the dancer shot back.

"Don't'cha like 'em, Sorelli?" he asked, utterly lost. What sort of person didn't like waffles? It was unheard of. Completely unnatural. In fact, the only person Keefé knew of who didn't like waffles was the ghost. Keefé was always trying to convince him to try some, but the ghost refused, deeming them "too filthy for his superior mouth." This didn't faze Keefé in the least, however, and he continued to try to get the ghost to sample his cooking. Thinking back on this now, though, Keefé took something into consideration. The dancer Sorelli didn't like waffles, and neither did the ghost. It wasn't hard to put two and two together come up with the solution: It was quite obvious that Sorelli was a ghost. But Keefé decided to keep that information to himself. After all, he had more important things to deal with.

"Even if I did like waffles, Keefé, I couldn't possibly eat them," sniffed Sorelli. "I'm a _ballerina_, therefore fattening things like waffles are out of the question."

"Aww, you don't really mean – hi Tyia! Ya want some waffles?" In an instant, Keefé was at the dancer's side and waving a plate of the breakfast food under her nose. Tyia forced a smile before shaking her head as politely as she could and hurrying away to the back of the room.

"C'mon, guys!" Keefé encouraged, instantly forgetting Tyia and turning to the other ballerinas.

"Hey!" one particularly squeaky dancer exclaimed, apparently having just thought of something. "I just thought of something! Keefé, you've seen the ghost, haven't you?"

"Uh…"

Now, the truth was, while they were bestest friends, Keefé had never actually _seen _the infamous Opéra Ghost. However, the dancers were all looking at him with the type of hunger they could never have for waffles or any other type of food substance. Needless to say, Keefé thought it would be wrong to disappoint them.

"Well…" he began slowly, scanning the room for inspiration. His eyes landed on something in the far corner of the room and he hastened to snatch it up. Holding up a hole-filled, mud-caked pair of galoshes proudly, he beamed at the troupe of dancers.

"_He looks a lot like these old boots!_

_But with a nose so big there's hardly any room!_

_He's my bestest friend, you know._

_He's constantly sending me garden gnomes of DOOM!_"

Appearing seemingly out of thin air, as was her habit, Mlle. Gazette yanked the boots out of Keefé's hand and promptly threw them across the room. They collided with the head of the squeaky ballerina, causing her to fall over, hit her already severely bruised head on the hardwood floor, and laps into a coma. She was later hauled off to the local hospital where a long argument took place, debating whether or not the squeaky dancer should be taken off life support. Mlle. Gazette, however, could care less about this, for she still had an irksome stagehand to deal with.

"_If you get any dumber_

_I'll have no choice but to kill you myself._

_Stupid Keefé, shut your trap! _"

She gave him a good whack upside the head.

"And go make your waffles for someone else!"

♪ ♪ ♪

The next chapter should be up much sooner, although I cannot make any promises. Skool is proving to be teh ebil once again and taking honors classes have actually _decreased _my respect for the human race if you can believe that.

**Notes**

There was a wall, but it was clear - think of the episode Tak the Hideous New Girl when Zim touches the front door of his house and the door turns into something of a two-way window. I thought it would fit very well here, considering how Erik used a two-way mirror to give Christine her singing lessons.

"No thoughts within her head...no dreams within her heart..." - an obvious reference to the song Christine sings in Erik's Don Juan Triumphant , but I thought I'd mention it all the same.

"Silvie's fine," - I always got the feeling that, in the movie at least, that Mme. Giry was a total E/C shipper. Either that, or she really didn't care about Christine's well-being.

Break feet so you'll have perfect turn-out - this can be done, creepy as it is. While I don't personally know anyone who has had their ankles broken and then set, a cousin of mine was seriously considering it for a good while. Luckily, she decided against it. However, this was only after she heard that it could cost her the use of her legs. 9.9;;

Sorelli - © Gaston Leroux. She might be somewhat OOC, but I kinda wanted her that way. She reminded me of a valley girl for some reason, so I just went with that.

One particularly squeaky dancer - you could say that she is based on Leroux's character little Jammes, although it is never mentioned.

...debating whether or not the squeaky dancer should be taken off life support - ahah...um...you could say that this is my way of poking fun at all the fuss people made about the formerly anorexic, comatose girl who apparently did not want life support. I think it was finding out that anorexia caused the heart attack which led to her vegetable state that really made me lose sympathy for her, although I, personally, do not support the idea of giving life support if someone does not want it. If this offended anyone, please do not hold it against me. After all, South Park did a lot worse.


	5. Oh No She Didn't!

**Chapter IV**

_**Oh No She Didn't!**_

Another short chapter. Sorry. I do intend for them to be rather long for the most part, but the last one was to be strictly for those two brief gap-fillers in the movie and I decided that this particular scene should be a chapter all in itself. Very important info is given out in this one, y'see. I'll make up for the shortness in the next chapter, though, I swear. After all, I've got the flashback, "Notes," "Prima Donna," and _Il Muto _to fit into it. :)

♪ ♪ ♪

The Scary Monkey Music Box leered down at the petite ingenue that was being swallowed up by a sea of purple velvet. Her chest rose and fell evenly with each intake of breath, indicating that she was enjoying a deep and blissful sleep. The monkey scowled. The girl was lying in _his _bed, and that just wouldn't do.

So, he decided to follow his dear mother's dream for a brief moment and become an alarm clock instead of a music box. Clanging his little brass cymbals in an irritatingly cheerful fashion and glaring menacingly all the while, the Scary Monkey gifted the diva with a rather rude awakening.

"Wah?" Silvie sputtered, bolting upright.

The monkey smirked inwardly and continued to play its pleasant tune.

"_Dundundun…_

_Dundundundun, _

_Dundundun…_"

Silvie gaped. Then, without warning, she reached behind her and hurled a mauve pillow at the music box.

"_Dundun – CLANK!_"

Pleased with herself, Silvie pursed her lips and glanced around, taking in her strange, new boudoir. The bed, which was, from what her hazy mind could decipher, shaped like a bird of some sort; possibly an ostrich. The room itself was capacious enough and lit by dozens of candles, all of which were halfway melted and obligingly dripped wax in a most eerie way. Giving the room a rather funeral air, the walls were covered in gauze so thick and black that Silvie could not possibly tell what lay on the other side.

Swinging her feet around so they dangled over the side of the bed just inches above the stone floor, Silvie made to stand up only to conk her head on yet another inconveniently placed tassel. This time, however, hitting her head turned out to be a _good _thing, as the tassel proved to be a pull-cord. Silvie eyed it thoughtfully.

"Hmm…"

♪ ♪ ♪

"So," Erik began conversationally, "when do you suppose the young lady will arise to thwart your master's plan and thus make everything much more miserable for us all?"

"Mmmmm…" the small, silver robot began, his electric blue eyes narrowing in concentration. "Soon!"

"Yes, I imagine so," Erik agreed vaguely, looking lost in thought. "Would you care for some more tea?"

"Pleasekay_thaaaa_nks!"

"If your master is foolish enough to believe that he has the most miniscule chance of succeeding after Mlle. Silvie…" Erik sighed and shook his head, filling the robot's cup. "Sugar?"

"I got it!" the robot replied and he promptly dumped the entire contents of the sugar bowl into his mouth. Erik's yellow eyes widened behind his mask, but he said nothing, choosing to stir his own tea rather than question the eccentric robot.

"If that absurd little tyrant continues with this ludicrous scheme of his…" Erik shook his head gravely. "It will be a bad lookout, M. Gir, a bad lookout for us all."

"Lookout!" the robot screeched as he sent a small, stuffed pig sailing through the air.

Erik merely sighed and leaned slightly to the right as the toy came whizzing by.

♪ ♪ ♪

Giving the tassel a mighty tug, Silvie watched with mild interest as the black gauze rose from the ground, leaving a lake and several comfortably decorated and well-lit grottos in its wake. Silvie started to get up and explore, but the moment her feet made contact with the slick, damp stone of the floor, she let out a yelp and jumped back into bed. The floor was freezing – a fact that seemed odd since she distinctly remembered falling asleep wearing a pair of warm, white stockings. Now, however, it appeared as though they had gone missing – an unfortunate occurrence, as it was quite frigid outside the warmth of her bed.

Her eyes bugging out as she stared at her bare legs, Silvie began,

"_O…M_..._G…Where are my socks?_

_Could've sworn I went to bed with them on…_"

Stepping cautiously onto the floor and wincing slightly as the cold stone made contact with her naked feet, she began milling around the caverns of her new home.

"_I'll bet somebody stole them –_

_A sneaky, creepy, socky thief!_

_Wouldn't mind if I weren't cold…_"

Her gray eyes lingered on the misty lake for several seconds before moving on to the boat…the candles…the enormous pipe organ…and then, finally, to the masked man stationed at it. Silvie gasped. _The ghost! _His green head perking up at the noise, the ghost glanced around to find his minion standing just feet away from him. Shuddering involuntarily at the sight of the hideous human, the ghost gritted his teeth and turned back to his work.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the ghost, Silvie began to inch toward him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"_I'll bet that guy is the culprit!_

_I'll bet he has got my socks!_"

Slowly, yet determinedly, she reached out a hand and, index finger extended, gave the ghost a gentle poke in the ribs.

He squeaked.

At once leaping to his feet, the ghost rounded on the young singer. Caught off guard, Silvie let out another gasp and stumbled backwards, landing most ungracefully onto her rear. The Opéra Ghost raised a gloved claw, perhaps intending to bring it down upon the fallen girl's head, but as the fist descended, it, however lightly, knocked the side of his mask. The white disguise remained in place for a precious few seconds and then tumbled to the ground. But it was not the only thing, Silvie noted, for as the mask hit the stone floor, two other, unfamiliar objects joined it shortly after. White and oval-shaped, they looked like twin halves of a very large egg. Terrified, Silvie raised her eyes to meet those of her captor, only to shrink away in horror at the gruesome sight before her.

Of course, the author cannot tell you what it was exactly that Silvie saw. We are only halfway through Act I and what lies underneath the ghost's mask cannot be revealed until we are all but a quarter of the way through Act II. By telling her readers now, the author would be ruining the effect. So, let's just say that the ghost was not the prettiest painting in the museum and leave it at that.

The ghost took one look at the fallen objects and let out a bestial cry of anguish. Silvie cowered but could not help but notice how much shorter the ghost looked, now, and that his strange, silver arms were suddenly no where to be seen.

♪ ♪ ♪

Erik looked up at the anguished cry that the author described just a paragraph before. He cocked his masked head toward the sound and listened for several seconds, his sensitive ears taking in everything and his logical mind working it all out.

"Oh dear…"

"Whassa matta, beau?" Gir asked, before devouring a plate of scones.

"Listen," the real Opéra Ghost implored.

The robot stuck out his tongue and listened as his master let out a ringing cry of "_Curse yoooou!_"

"Oooh…" he said, realization dawning.

"It sounds as if she's removed his mask, doesn't it?" Erik asked sadly.

"Uh-huh!" Gir replied happily.

"Oh dear…" Erik said again, worry lining his angelic voice.

Gir took no notice of this, too busy partaking in shoving one of Erik's teacups into his metal mouth.

♪ ♪ ♪

"_Curse you!_" the ghost raged, shaking a furious fist at Silvie.

"_You sniv'ling little huuuuuman!_

_You smelly stink-pig!_"

He whipped around and began storming throughout his secret spooky lair of DOOM. He thrashed about, taking his rage out on several unsuspecting objects. After taking the time to chuck a random book at a full-length mirror, he snarled at Silvie,

"_What ever could have possessed you?_"

Silvie shrugged helplessly and the ghost fumed.

"_Curse you!_

_You drib'ling little monkey!_

_You filthy hair beast!_

_Prepare to meet your horrible DOOM!_"

He ran a hand over his odd, pompadour-styled hair, having discarded his hat hours ago while Silvie slept. He sighed wearily, taking only a small amount of comfort in the thought that his wig had at least stayed in place.

"_Curse you…_" he seethed, knocking over a lit candelabra, which was perfectly fine because it was not as if the action would be a fire hazard or anything equally dangerous. The ghost let out a feral growl and spun to face Silvie, shaking a fist at her.

"_CURSE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!_"

The ghost clenched his fists, quivering in barely suppressible fury. Then, very slowly, he turned to face Silvie who lay crumbled on the floor in very much the same position as before. She looked up at the ghost, her gray eyes growing misty with tears as he loomed over her, and she noticed that he had swapped his cloak for a black robe that was now billowing out around him by an unseen wind. The image was quite foreboding.

"_Great,_" the ghost sighed, "_I've been thwarted._

_You just _had _to go_

_And wreck it, so_

_My plan is ruined._"

His claws curled into a fist and Silvie raised a hand for protection, but the movement was unnecessary. The ghost merely began to pace.

"_All of that plotting_

_Has gone to waste_

_All thanks to you._

_It's been destroyed_

_Thanks to you,_

_Thanks to you..._"

He spun abruptly and his oddly colored eyes landed on the Silvie bridal doll, which stood just as motionless and eerily lifelike as before. The doll blinked. The ghost jumped back at once. He eyed the mannequin suspiciously, but it merely stood there wearing its blank smile as it always had. The ghost stared for several seconds, but when the doll showed no sign of movement, he turned back to the real Silvie, blaming the hallucination on his human slave girl's recent actions.

"Ahem," he started uncertainly, taking care not to look at the doll. "_See, Silvie…_

"_I'm not all I seem._

_With my amazing brain_

_I planned to gain_

_Control of Earth._

_But since you've seen me,_

_It's been pointless._

_All thanks to you_

_Hope has been dashed_

_Thanks to you,_

_Thanks to you…_"

He glared at the teary-eyed girl, who, in turn, gazed back at him, looking…well…teary-eyed. The ghost sneered.

"Stupid human."

Silvie pouted and looked shamefully at the floor. That is when her eyes fell upon the mask and strange, oval disks. Unsure as to whether or not she was doing the right thing but quite lost as to what else to do, Silvie reached out and picked up the three objects, proffering them hopefully to the livid ghost. He looked from them to her, as if debating whether or not it was a trick (or, more likely, whether or not they were safe after being touched by filthy human hands). At last, he decided that there was not a major risk of them being contaminated or him being hoodwinked and he snatched the mask and ovals out of Silvie's hand. The singer waited patiently as the ghost, with his back to her, put each object in its proper place. When at last he faced her again, Silvie saw that the strange oval disks had covered his creepy eyes, making them almost…normal. She was about to make a mention of this when one of the ghost's metal appendages shot out and took her by the wrist.

"Come," the ghost hissed, still not quite over his anger. "There is much to explain."

And without another word of explanation, he hauled her off into the depths of his lair.

♪ ♪ ♪

"I am not one of your filthy race," the ghost explained, standing before a massive, black square of glass. This part of the lair was unlike the rest. Silvie could not see a single rock or even a hint of the stone floor. Odd, metal devices covered the walls. The ceiling was a web of purple and gray cables, making it impossible to see the stalactites of the cave. The stone floors had been covered with smooth, green slats. Everywhere Silvie looked there were gigantic pieces of machinery that she could never have dreamed of even if she had tried.

"You're not?" Silvie asked, tearing her eyes away from the foreign equipment.

The ghost glared. "No. My leaders sent me to your filthy planet on a _secret mission_."

"A secret mission?" Silvie repeated.

"_Yes_," the ghost replied, looking quite pleased with himself. "They gave the mission to me because no one else was worthy of such an assignment."

"Um, what _was _the assignment?"

"Become master of the human race and have the earth prepped in time for my Tallests' arrival," the ghost answered as simply as if she had him what two plus two was, which was just about as simple as you could get.

"I still…I don't really get what you're saying, buddy, sorry."

The ghost sighed wearily and turned to push several buttons on the weird metal table behind him. At once the massive black screen from before flashed to life.

"This should help," the ghost explained. "Watch! And _learn…_"

Silvie stared as six brilliantly pink words appeared on the screen and an overly cheerful man's voice read them for those who were blind, illiterate, or just plain lazy.

"So, you've been marked for conquest!"

The image changed to a picture of a frowny face.

"But don't feel bad!"

The picture instantly became a smiley face.

"You _should_ feel honored! Because you, yes, _you _have been hand-selected by the Irken Empire! Don't know who they are? **_Why not?_**" the narrator demanded, at once becoming as harsh and fierce as the fiery pits of hell. Yet in an equal amount of time it became pleasant and chipper once more.

"You should! After all, they took the time to get to know you! How did they do this, you are wondering? Hahah…well, turns out, you've been spied on! Yes, spied on. The Irken Empire sent one of their top-raking soldiers – or 'Invaders' – to pay your planet at little visit in order to get to know your species better."

The screen showed a picture of an Irken soldier dressed in a crude chicken costume and standing amid a group of towering, salivating space poultry.

"He's been taking notes on you and your planet for quite some time, figuring out your weaknesses so he knows exactly how to attack when the Irken Armada arrives. That way, the Armada can quickly conquer your planet and convert it into one they actually have a use for."

Images of a planet of useless souvenirs, a planet of nachos, and a planet of hot pants flashed upon the screen.

"By now, you might be wondering what exactly is going to happen to you," the narrator continued. "You might be worrying that you will becomes slaves to the Irken Elite. You might be panicking. You might be ripping out your hair, fur, antennae, or other such epidermal filaments. But there's no need for any of that! Oh no! You'll be perfectly fine and much, much happier than you were before once you serve the Irken Empire. On Irk, we think 'slavery' is a harsh word, and it doesn't even come _close _to what you will be!"

The screen flashed to a picture of a group of sea monkey-like people who, despite their filthy rags and haggard appearance, were smiling cheerfully and waving for the camera.

"Rather than turn you and your people into slaves," the narrator went on, "the Irken Empire will give you all brand-new jobs!"

Several of the sea monkey people were shown doing backbreaking labor: From holding pickaxes that were five times too big to moving massive boulders by hand.

"Cushy accommodations!"

Next, a group of the same monkey people was seen being crammed into a small pit in the ground.

"And top-notch food and beverages!"

The tape then cut to the monkey people staring down at a plate of dirt and a glass of murky looking water.

"So turn that frown upside down!" the narrator said enthusiastically. "Stop worrying and bow! Bow to the Irken Empire! Because chances are, if you're watching this video, galactic conquest is already on its way!"

There was a light, jingly fanfare and then the screen went blank.

Silvie stared up at the black square for a beat before turning to stare questioningly at the ghost.

"They're not on their way," he said uncomfortably.

"Why not?"

"Do not question me!" the ghost ordered, pointing a threatening finger. "It has _nothing, _absolutely _nothing _to do with incompetence on my part. I have been following Invader protocol exactly! No mission is too difficult for _meeee! _Everything was going perfectly No one suspected a _thing! _And then…" He paused, gesturing to his masked face. "_This _happened. And suddenly the entire human race knew of my existence, knew what I really was!"

"An alien?" Silvie whispered timidly.

"_Yes_, you puny-brained female, _yes!_ So I had to go into hiding. Don't ask why I chose this place; it was for reasons that would make your filthy head _explode_ they are that impossibly difficult to comprehend. But this proved to be another problem: _How _was I supposed to carry out my mission if I could not go out of doors to observe human activity? _How? **How?**_"

Silvie watched as he began to pace once more. Suddenly, he stopped, his back to her, and said quietly, "It was under this…Opéra House…that I reached a solution. I was replacing a camera in Box Eight – I won't bother to explain what that is; you wouldn't understand – when you walked onto the stage." Now he turned and smirked. "Foolish human. You thought you were alone. _But you were not!_"

Silvie blinked.

"_I _heard you," the ghost went on. "And no matter how _filthy _your skin may be, no matter how tiny your brain is, no matter how utterly _repulsing _I may find you…your voice is far more superior than that stinky Calamari-human's.

"As I was listening to you, my amazing brain was already formulating a plan. Posing as your 'dear little pixie,' I would train you and make you into a singing sensation. With your amazing voice –" his now-violet eyes glittered "— I would be able to brainwash the entire human race. For, as I'm sure even your weak little mind knows, if there is one thing that holds absolute control over a human being, it's a popular singer. They decide _everything_. What a human wears, what filth they eat, who they obey…"

Though slightly unnerved, Silvie could not deny that he was right.

"So…so you heard me singing, liked my voice, and decided to use me as a pawn in your scheme?" she demanded quietly.

"…yes," the ghost replied simply.

"And you," she breathed rapidly, looking slightly crazed. "You're an…an…"

"It is true, Silvie!" he hissed, whipping his black robe around him. "I am not a pixie, nor a human, nor a ghost…_I am ZIM!_"

"Zim…" she whispered faintly.

"_Zim…_" he repeated, relishing in the name.

"And…and you _lied_ to me," Silvie accused. "You lied and manipulated and filled my head with thoughts of joy and all that jazz. And now…_now_ you want me to be your _ally?_"

"Yes," Zim answered with a haughty toss of his green head.

Silvie scrutinized the arrogant subject for a time, a million thoughts running through her head at once, which was quite draining considering that a person of Silvie's intelligence normally only has about a quarter of that number running through his or her head. Then, after eight seconds of tacit debate, eight seconds of staring at Zim's egotistical pose, eight seconds of thinking about his even more egotistical attitude, eight seconds of milling over the lies and wild stories and traumatizing experiences, and then, finally, eight seconds of going over the alien's unexpected request, Silvie looked at him and uttered the only words that are expected of one in her position.

"You jerk."

♪ ♪ ♪

Next chapter will take a while longer, unfortunately. Like I said, the flashback, "Notes," "Prima Donna," and _Il Muto _all need to be rewritten. Also, the following week appears to be a rocky one. I have several papers due and many tests coming up, and education comes first around house, no matter how lame that sounds. Trust me, it's a heck of a lot easier than slacking off and having my computer privileges withdrawn.

**Notes **

...shaped like a bird of some sort - I'm just curious since there have been several debates about this: Was the bed in the movie supposed to be a swan or a peacock? Personally, I thought it was a swan simply because that would be more fitting. Y'know. Christine's a beautiful swan and all that jazz.

"Would you care for some more tea?" - I told you that Erik and Gir would have a tea party.

"It will be a bad lookout, M. Gir, a bad lookout for us all" - in the original novel, Erik is talking to his friend the Persian (who hardly ever gets any credit, the poor guy) about interfering with his, Erik's, plans. He says to him, "...and then they will be after Erik themselves and they will discover the house on the lake... If they do, it will be a bad lookout for you, old chap, a bad lookout!" And so I decided to have the Erik in this parody, who is indeed based on the original, quote...himself...somewhat. All in all, I don't really mind it when people use quotes from the TV show/movie/book in their fanfiction, as long as they don't do it all the time and as long as they don't quote the person exactly. Like if someone has Captain Jack end every sentence with "savvy?" in their Pirates of the Caribbean fic, I and people like myself will find that tiresome and unoriginal. Just a note.

"O…M...G…Where are my socks? " - aha...ahah... okay, this has been the topic of debate on PotO sites ever since the new movie came out. If you noticed, Christine is wearing long white stockings throughout the mirror scene, the title song, and "Music of the Night." They aren't that hard to miss; they go all the way up to her thighs and are held up by garters, people. Anyway, after the gap fillers with Meg and Buquet, we return to the Phantom's lair just as Christine is waking up. She sits up, gets out of bed, and...GASP! Her stockings are gone! And no explanation is ever offered as to why this is, though several theories have come up: 1) They filmed the scenes on different days and just forgot the stockings, 2) Joel Schumacher left them off on purpose cuz he's a perv and he also wanted to see if anyone would notice, or 3) Gerik stole them while she was sleeping cuz...c'mon, he did so much groping in MotN. _You_ tell me he didn't want her stockings. Anyway, rather than ignore this or simply write a funny little paragraph that would be very similar to the one above, I decided to write an entire song about it! Yay! I actually would like to bring this topic up in the future and have it be, like, the ground on which the entire plot stands, but...eh. Ya never know.

He squeaked - dude, Zim totally does. "The Halloween Spectacular of Spooky DOOM" and "Lice" are only two examples of this. And it's always a dare to see who can poke Zim and live to tell about it in the RPG I'm in. So, yeah, I threw that in. Besides, Silvie really didn't have a reason to rip off his mask. She only wanted her socks back and she needed to get Zim's attention.

White and oval-shaped, they looked like twin halves of a very large egg - how many stinkin' anachronisms have been in this fic already and yet contact lenses are unfamiliar to Silvie? I don't know why I decided to do that. I really don't.

...how much shorter the ghost looked - he was using his mech. legs before so he could tower over Silvie. He wanted to be imposing, y'see, but in his moment of anger he...kinda...forgot about 'em. Just in case that wasn't clear already.

"Whassa matta, beau?" - pronounced "boo" because it's a cute thing for Gir to say, even though rappers and others have tarnished the original, French pronunciation "b-oh." -.e;

...he seethed, knocking over a lit candelabra - which, as I said in the fic, was totally fine. It didn't matter if he set the lair on fire. He could always get another one. 9.9 I just thought it was a funny thing for Gerik to do in the movie. Understandable, he's ticked and someone with the Phantom's temper is prone to destroy things when they're feeling angry, but still...he could've set his bloody lair on fire! That candelabra was lit, ya know!

...billowing out around him by an unseen wind - those sure are handy, unseen winds.

Stranger Than You Dreamt It/My Plan is Through - just like to say that I hope it wasn't too difficult to follow. I had a heck of a time getting the correct rhythm down, and then I found out that parts of the song rhymed , which I obviously did not notice before hand (and I've been a PotO fan for how many years?) and thought nothing of since ALW has a tendency to write non-rhyming songs.

The doll blinked - that thing was freaky . Even freakier than the one in the stage show, and that one kinda reaches out and grabs Christine. o.o;; And I don't care what anyone says, that had to be Emmy Rossum. They probably just put her in the wedding dress and filmed her standing still for several seconds. I'd bet money on it.

"Stupid human" - much more endearing than that weepy "Oh, Christine..." don't'cha think? ;D

"...it was for reasons that would make your filthy head _explode_ they are that impossibly difficult to comprehend" - and since Silvie is an exaggerated reincarnation of myself when I was thirteen...I cannot explain it either, although I can confidently say that I am much more intelligent now than I was at age thirteen. u.u

"...if there is one thing that holds absolute control over a human being, it's a popular singer" - it's the sad, sad truth for a majority of the world. Or at least America. 9.9 Really, this is one of Zim's better plans, when you think about it. Only thing is, he's forming it during the 1800s -- at time where any and all theatre folk were considered sexually promiscuous, vulgar, and sometimes Satan's right-hand guys. People wouldn't mind being entertained by them, they just didn't want anything to do with them afterward the show was over. 9.9

"I am not a pixie, nor a human, nor a ghost…_I am ZIM!_" - God, I have wanted to have him say that for so long! It's just so...so...Zim . Ah, allow me to explain. In the original PotO novel, after Erik takes Christine down to his lair and she learns that he is not her Angel of Music, he says "It is true, Christine! ...I am not an Angel, nor a genius, nor a ghost... I am Erik!" He doesn't say it in the typical Zim-style, of course, but a IZ/PotO fan such as myself could easily hear it said that way. :D

"...filled my head with thoughts of joy" - I'm just gonna run that joke into the ground, aren't I?


	6. Tall, Pushy Sycophants

**Chapter V **

**_Tall, Pushy Sycophants_**

Here we are, the long (and I do mean long) awaited Chapter Five. I do apologize for the delay and I apologize even more for using the age-old excuse of "I had a lot of skool work." It's true, though. Being a junior in hi skool is "teh suxxorz," you know. In any case, do not for once think that I will give up on this fic, because I simply can't do that. Seriously, the thought of unfinished projects eat away at my brain and there isn't much of my brain left after writing all of those horrendous IZ fics in midl skool. (shudders) I _am_ terribly sorry I burdened all of you with them, by the way, and am trying to make amends through Silvie. She is a blatant reincarnation of myself…when I was an uncertain, somewhat overly confident, almost completely brainless, thirteen-year-old airhead. Oh, _and_ a cheerleader. Of course…Silvie isn't a cheerleader. In France, they're called _pompom girls _since there is no actual word in France for "cheerleader." Besides, this takes place in the 1870s; not only was there a war going on in France at the time (but don't tell that to Sir Andy and Joel! Their heads just might explode, though that's not exactly a _bad _thing), but cheerleaders don't exist in the country _period_. Yet another reason why I plan on moving there. :D

Now, I know way back when I posted Chapter Four I said that the following installment would contain "Notes," "Prima Donna," and _Il Muto_. Well…I lied. While I _do _have all three songs rewritten, it is simply taking too long to put them all into one big chapter. Besides, once _this_ chapter got to be fifteen pages long and I wasn't even halfway done with it, I knew that things were getting out of hand. So, I chopped it in two, giving "Prima Donna" and _Il Muto _a chapter all to themselves. It might be annoying at first, but wouldn't you rather have this than an even longer wait? I thought not. u.u

**Note: **As usual, every sentence that is written in _italics _is meant to be sung. I am only bringing this to your attention now because not all of the song lyrics will be centered in this chapter since much of "Notes/Prima Donna" is, for the most part, set up like a conversation between several people and will be written as such. Just so everyone is aware and goes about reading this chapter without confusion. Or…much confusion, at least. :)

♪ ♪ ♪

_**Paris, 1919**_

"Lemme see th' monkey."

"_No_, Abby," Dibier snapped, his wizened hands clutching the Scary Monkey Music Box tightly. "Knowing you, you'll break it, and this thing cost me thirty francs!"

"Euro," the nurse/nun corrected at once.

"…you still can't touch it," the viscount told her. "It's _old_ and breakable and worth a lot of money."

"So…it's like you, only less annoyin'?" Abby ventured, smirking in amusement as she wheeled the viscount out of the ruinous Opéra house. Dibier opened his mouth in an attempt to form a retort, spoke intermittently for several seconds, and finally settled on muttering:

"You're outta my will, you know."

"Uh huh," the nurse/nun replied, unimpressed. "Yeh know I've already robbed yeh blind by now, right?" Before Dibier could answer, she brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt in front of a black, old-fashioned Rolls Royce, causing the viscount to pitch forward and tumble onto the pavement most comically.

"Sorry 'bout that," Abby said calmly, stooping to put the viscount back on his feet before chucking him headfirst into the car.

"Floor it, m'love," the nurse/nun told the chauffeur as she slid into the passenger's seat.

"_How _many times do I hafta tell yeh not t' call me that at work?" the driver demanded, pulling his black chauffeur's cap down over his eyes, which were heavily outlined in khole almost to the point of being ridiculous, but it actually turned out to look rather attractive.

"Right, darlin', sorry," Abby assured him, holding up her palms in a gesture of peace.

"This scheme o' yours had best be worth it," the chauffeur muttered. "I've had t' wear this idiotic outfit, cut my hair, shave –"

"An' take a bath. Yes, yeh've really been through a lot, Jack," Abby commented dryly. "Trust me, it'll work. The ol' man's senile – 'e has no _clue _what's goin' on."

"Uh, _hey! _I'm right back here!" Dibier reminded them, waving his arms wildly. "Hey! Man, how'd I wind up with a couple of thieves as my driver and…nurse…lady…thing?"

"For the record: We're not _thieves_, dearest heart," Abby informed him, twisting around in her seat. "We're pi –"

But what they were, exactly, Dibier never found out, for the chauffeur chose that moment to stomp on the brakes, causing the tires to emit a piercing squeal, that in turn forced Dibier to press his hands over his ears, which made it impossible for him to hear what Abby had to say. Then again, Abby had already shut her trap thanks to the screeching halt, which meant that Dibier wouldn't have heard what the nurse/nun had to say whether he had covered his ears or not.

"_Jack!_" the nurse/nun vociferated furiously, pummeling the chauffeur with her fists, the belled sleeves of her habit whipping wildly about her. "What the bloody hell was that about?"

"Are you drunk, woman?" the driver shouted back.

"No!"

"Then have you visited any opium dens as of late?" he prodded further.

"Yeh'd know if I had," Abby said, rolling her eyes. "_Believe _me."

"Then _why _d'yeh feel the need t' shoot yer bloody _mouth off?_" the chauffeur demanded.

"Oh, come off it, like 'e's gonna know –"

"Look," the Vicomte Dibier, leaning forward as much as his senescent body would allow, "I don't _care _who you are just as long as you do your job, which includes getting me out of here before some creepy ex-ballerina shows up."

After exchanging a concerned glance, the pair of servants then turned their eyes to the Opera House in the distance and gasped. Sure enough, there was an auburn/gray haired old woman hobbling after the car as fast as her brittle legs would allow, waving her handbag, knocking down small children, and yelling "M. le Vicomte! M. le Vicomte!" all the while. Abby shrugged.

"She still looks better than you, sir."

"Hey, I'm in a _wheelchair_; gimme a break," Dibier defended.

"C'mon, mate, you're a _viscount_," the chauffeur insisted. "Surely you, of all people, 'ave the gold t'...y'know...not let yerself go t' pieces in yer old age."

Dibier glared, highly offended. "I'm one of those crazy, reclusive types who hoards all of his cash and freaks out whenever a single penny is spent."

"Is that why yeh bought that bloody ugly monkey thing?" the nurse/nun inquired coyly.

The viscount slumped down in his seat in a huff, his bony arms folded across his chest.

"Oh, shut up."

♪ ♪ ♪

_**Paris, 1971**_

M. Rouge was in a fix. The theatre he and M. Violet had purchased was supposedly haunted, the new lead singer had mysteriously disappeared, the old prima donna refused to come back to work, and his partner (and no, not in that sense, you perverts) was on the verge of having a mental breakdown. On top of that, he didn't have a _thing _to wear and was still unsure if the burgundy cravat was too much with a jacket, vest, and pants of the same color, or if the white dress shirt went with the outfit at all. Worse yet, some vacuous ballet rat had stolen his last bag of cheetos. What's more, nosey reporters had caught wind of the scandalous affairs and published everything in the local newspapers! Well, everything except the stolen bag of cheetos, but M. Rouge still considered that of equal importance. Needless to say, he was in quite a foul mood when he burst through the doors of the Opera House.

"'_Craziness!_

_After just one song,_

_It's craziness!_

_The new diva's gone!_

"'_Scandalous,_'

_The newspaper reads._

_'It's scandalous –_

_She's presumed deceased!_'"

M. Rouge threw his newspaper to the ground, sending its contents spewing all over the marble floor that the cleaning crones had worked so hard to polish. But M. Rouge was not to blame. After all, he had a lot on his mind.

"_Calamari's insulted,_

_Now Silvie just might be dead!_"

He shrugged it off, striding up the grand staircase, his boots leaving a trail of mud in their wake.

"_Eh. There's no need to worry_

_Long as I've still got moneys._"

Reaching the first landing with a broad grin, he pivoted gracefully and faced the Opera's lobby. The cleaning crones glared as they went about effacing the mess he had made.

"_It's not way to rule an empire –_

_Though I'm not about to complain._

_What else did I expect_

_When the Massive wrecked?_"

He scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.

"Opera?

_No _way!_ This stuff is lame,_

_And Purple claims_

_That it is driving him insane!_"

"_Curse it all!_" a furious voice broke in. M. Rouge turned to find his co-manager clothed in a pair of dark gray pants, a plum colored dress coat that had a lighter purple collar with a white polka dot pattern, a vest that matched the aforementioned collar, and a stylish silk bow tie, also in plum. M. Violet thundered down the staircase on the left, cursing and waving in his hands what appeared to be a cream colored envelope.

"_Our lives are at stake!_

_Curse it all!_"

"Would you take a break?" Rouge demanded with a roll of his unusual red eyes.

"_It's propaganda!_

_So the fans will swarm._

_Just propaganda –_"

"_No one will perform!_" M. Violet exclaimed hysterically. His partner sighed, draping a slender arm across M. Violet's equally bony shoulders in a would-be-friendly gesture.

"_But, Pur, we've still got tons of cash._

_So don't freak out; you'll get a rash._"

He was on the verge of giving the edgy manager a kind (albeit, patronizing) pat on the head when he caught sight of the envelope in M. Violet's hand. "Hey!" he exclaimed, snatching the note up. "I got a letter!" And he promptly began to read aloud, knowing that it would be beneficial if the entire world knew the contents of his mail.

"_Hey Rouge,_

_Just thought that I would tell you:_

_Silvie's fame should, no doubt, amass._

_Calamari's not lead – _

_She has made ears bleed!_

_By the way,_

_I nearly tossed my cookies_

_Upon looking at some dancer's exposed – _"

M. Violet interrupted by pulling out a letter of his own, thereby muting any words that may have been profane to young, impressionable minds.

"_Hey Violet,_

_I should inform you:_

_I think you might have missed a date._

_My payment has been due_

_Since last Tuesday, fool!_

_Now you know_

_To not trifle with me_

_For you will be_

_Dead if my salary is late!_"

He looked up from his letter, his purple eyes wide with shock, his mouth stretched in a gaping O, and turned to his equally outraged partner.

"_Who on Irk would dare to write that?_" they both demanded to know. "_Probably some dumb short-thing._"

Rouge pointed out, "_The bottoms say 'I. Z. –'_"

"_Yeah,_" Violet agreed, "_but that could be –_"

"_Anyone!_" they both concluded.

"_It could be Mlle. Gazette,_" Rouge speculated.

"_Or even worse yet,_" Violet gasped, "_It's the milkman!_"

"_No way, that can't be,_" Rouge scoffed. "_It's stupid._"

"You're _who's stupid! Mine was better._"

"_These letters aren't funny!_" they both agreed. "_We've no money if we've got no one to sing!_"

"_Where's she at?_"

At the ring of the emphatic inquest, Messieurs Rouge and Violet whipped around to find the Vicomte de Dibier – today clad in a royal blue coat, light gray vest, black pants and boots – standing at the foot of the staircase, arms folded, and scowling furiously up at the rangy managers.

"_Oh no. It's that kid,_" sighed M. Rouge, massaging his temples.

"_You've kidnapped Silvie!_" the viscount accused, pointing a choleric finger at the pair of managers. "_Where's she at?_"

"_You think _we _did it?_" Violet asked, dumbfounded.

"_Don't go playing dumb,_" warned the viscount as he hurried up the stairs. "_It's pointless if you try to resist!_"

M. Violet, always the more nervous of the two managers, panicked and quickly ducked behind the banister. "Ack! _He suspects us!_"

"_No way, kid!_" Rouge protested.

"_His head's so big…_" Violet noted, awed.

This stymied the viscount for a moment, causing him to halt his interrogation, though he was still rather suspicious of the towering, green-skinned pair. Well, who wouldn't have been? The verdure would have been enough of a turn-off.

"_It wasn't you guys?_"

"_No way, kid!_" Rouge insisted, holding up his hands in defense.

"_We're both human!_" Violet assured him, poking his head out from behind his makeshift refuge.

"_So you're both saying,_" the viscount inquired, "_neither of you know about _this?" and he at once withdrew a cream-colored envelope from his breast pocket and held it up as one would a threatening dagger. M. Rouge scoffed.

"_Have you breathed in that mysterious mist? …_fog," he explained. "Stuff. You know."

Violet rolled his eyes at his partner and snatched the letter from Dibier, who let out an indignant "Hey!" but was, as usual, ignored.

"'Don't worry your massive head,'" Violet recited. "'A dear little pixie has Silvie safely enslaved. Contact her and face the pixie's wrath.'" Slowly he lowered the note, looking upon the unfortunate viscount with unmitigated disdain. "You think _we _wrote _this?_"

"Yeah!" Rouge added, letting his vexation be known. "You expect us to know about your secret infatuation with our new lead singer, and that said singer happens to be the girl you mistook for a being of unimaginable ethereal abilities when you were younger, and that you later became so enamored with her that, when you were in her dressing room last night, you trusted her, which allowed you two to become friends, which in turn made _her _confess to _you _that her deceased begetter had sent a wraith from her childhood to come down and watch over her and make her into a spectacular singing sensation, and that we took _all _of this information, which we somehow _magically _obtained during our short time as managers, and, for some unknown reason, decided to send it to you via a threatening epistle? Well? _Do_ ya?"

The viscount's only answer was to shuffle his feet uncomfortably.

"Um…o-kay…" he said eventually. "I guess I _did _get a bit…carried away, there, but –"

"Darn right, ya did!" Violet exclaimed huffily.

"_And _you accused us of kidnapping your girlfriend!" Rouge reminded him, highly insulted.

"She's not my – _we're not like that!_" Dibier fermented, immediately on the defensive, which led one to suspect that he really _did _have, at the very least, a small amount of feeling regarding Silvie. "And what do _you _know? You're an alien!"

Violet gasped, his eyes widening in terror. "Uh…uhhh…_LIAR!_"

"Yeah," Rouge acquiesced, nodding. "You're crazy, kid. Get lost."

"No way!" Dibier yelled. "I'll bet you two have this all planned out! You probably _did _send me that letter so I would come here and you could question me, and cut me open, and poke at my insides, and stick a –"

"_Vhere's 'e at?_" a shrill voice demanded from the doorway, cutting through their conversation like a thermogenic cutting instrument through a soft yellowish emulsion of butterfat, water, air, and salt that is churned from milk or cream. Calamari now stood where the viscount had been only seconds before, wearing a voluminous gown of brilliant fuchsia, as well as a fuzzy pink shawl and a gaudy, pink, lace-trimmed hat complete with a decorative taxidermal pigeon. Flanking her sides (and nearly being crushed by the number of skirts) was a trio of servants along with her beau Pooncy, Bevitore di Odio.

"_Oh, whadda you want?_" M. Rouge sighed.

"_Dat loveseeek veecomte!_" was her furious reply.

"My head's not – I mean, _I'm_ not, uh…" Dibier stumbled, quite unsure as to exactly what he was protesting at the moment.

"_Vhere's 'e at?_" Calamari demanded again.

"_I am right here,_" Dibier informed her, unable to contain his sarcasm as he waved his hand in a half-hearted attempt to gain her attention.

"_Aye 'ave a mehssage,_" Calamari claimed. "_A mehssage claiming Aye'm vanted dead!_"

Rouge rounded on Dibier. "_Why would you do that?_"

"_I didn't!_" the viscount insisted, every-so slightly intimidated by the towering figure.

"_Why not kill him?_" Violet suggested to Calamari.

"_Youa deed not wrrite dees?_" Calamari shrieked at the viscount.

"_I didn't!_" he cried again.

M. Rouge stared, lost, at the viscount and the diva. "_I'm real confused…_"

"_Dees ees 'is letterr!_" Calamari declared. "_Aye know eet's frrrom 'is enormous 'ead!_"

"_And just what am I supposed to have said?_" Dibier asked dryly, fed up with the former prima donna's unfounded accusations. Calamari held out the letter at once, waving it imperiously under his nose in a silent command to read it. Eyeing the woman darkly the entire time, Dibier ripped it out of her hand and complied.

"'I am sick of enduring your awful singing. Your foul voice has damaged my hearing organs long enough. My slave-girl Silvie is _far_ better that you could ever hope to be.'"

Dibier was about to crumple the letter into a ball, throw it at La Calamari, and then launch into a prolix tirade about how the diva's own idiocy had blinded her beyond comprehension when he was forestalled by the two managers. They swooped down on either side of Calamari and draped their sticklike arms across her shoulders.

"_What is up with all these letters?_

_Why do they all concern Silvie?_

_It's as if the whole world_

_Revolves 'round that girl –_"

"Hey" said a dry voice, calling them all to attention. "Silvie has come back." Mlle. Gazette scowled at the others from the foot of the steps, as did Tyia the ballerina. However, while the ballet mistress glared, the dancer gave them all a nervous smile, which was much more welcome than Mlle. Gazette's dirty look, though it went unnoticed for the most part, given the news that Mlle. Gazette had just delivered.

"_Well,_" replied M. Rouge jovially, thinking all of his problems solved and beginning to edge out of the room, "_that's good to hear, now I'm off to get some snacks._"

But M. Violet grasped him by the shoulder and hauled him back before he could slink away. His violet eyes still on his fellow manager, he demanded of Mlle. Gazette:

"_Where exactly has she been?_"

"She's passed out in her bedroom," answered the ballet mistress, flat-out refusing to sing despite the fact that the libretto called for it. Vocal warbling of any kind was simply not something Mlle. Gazette did.

"_I think she's drunk!_" piped up Tyia, ignoring Mlle. Gazette's declination to sing and caroling to the best of her ability.

"_Will she see me?_" Dibier beseeched of the ballet instructor, momentarily forgetting to mask his concern for Silvie's welfare.

"No way, Dib," Mlle. Gazette snorted heartlessly. "She doesn't like you."

"_Lovesick keed! Lovesick keed!_" both Calamari and Poonchy chanted mockingly.

"Shut up!"

"You have a letter," Mlle. Gazette informed the managers, holding up an envelope identical to the ones before it. At the sound of this everyone immediately dropped what they were doing (quite literally, actually; Poonchy dropped the soda he had been drinking) and pounced on the ballet mistress.

"_Fork it over!_"

"Yoink!" cried M. Rouge triumphantly as the letter slipped from Mlle. Gazette's grasp. The ballet teacher rolled her eyes as Rouge began to read.

"'Imbeciles,

"'I have tried to be as pleasant as possible while writing my notes, all of which give clear instructions for my Opera. Yet you _fools _chose to disobey me! _ME! _So,'" M. Rouge continued, unknowingly letting a voiceover of the famed Opera Ghost leak into the manager's words until it eventually consumed them entirely, leaving the ghost to dictate the rest of the letter. "I'm through being nice, now…'"

♪ ♪ ♪

"'_I will lend you my stink slave Silvie,_

_If only to further her rising career..._'"

Flashback-Zim grinned maliciously as he scribbled away at his desk, reading aloud as he wrote his letter to the managers. He looked across the mess of papers, inkwells, and quill pens at the miniature theatre complete with painted wax dolls crafted to fit the likenesses of the entire company, including a Calamari in a gigantic pink dress and towering white wig and a Silvie in …pants. Why a great and powerful Opera Ghost/Irken Invader would have a dollhouse, let alone _play _with it, the author was quite unsure. But she admitted to liking the idea, somewhat, because it like Zim was ruling over the Opera House or like he was "God of the Opera" or something. In any case, Zim soon became lost in his maniacal thoughts, and was gazing at the tiny doll-Silvie when, suddenly, the replica was lifted from the model stage by a metal claw. Zim gasped.

"Gir!"

The robot paused to gaze dumbly at his master, the little wax feet of the doll poking out of his mouth.

"Put it _back_, Gir," Zim commanded tersely.

"Aww…"

Zim glared, unmoved by the pleading expression that would have driven many fangirls to tears at its cuteness. "_Now._"

"Okaaay…" the robot sighed, dejected, before returning the now saliva-coated doll back in its proper place and shuffling sulkily out of the room.

"Now," Zim murmured to himself, "where was I…oh yeah." Clearing his throat importantly, he lifted the letter and once again began to orate what he had written.

"'_Therefore the casting's changed for _Ill Mootoe,

_And Silvie will be in the leading female rôle…_'"

The alien reached out and plucked the heads off of both the Calamari and, cringing slightly as drool came into contact with his fingers, the Silvie doll. Quickly, he placed his protégé's head on the body of the model with the gigantic pink dress.

"'_While Calamari will damage no more ears._'"

Calamari's head connected with the Silvie doll's body and Zim smirked in satisfaction.

"'_See, silent rôles are best_

_Suited for one with her voice,_

_And parts with singing are for Silvie,_

_Which means the aud'ence will enjoy…_'"

Zim's smirk broadened as his letter came to a close.

"'…_my choice._'"

He paused, looking at the little theatre and sneering maliciously to himself.

"'Tonight I'll be observing the show from Box Three, Five, or Eight,'" he continued, "'so no smelly _Dib_-humans had better steal my seats!'"

Zim lifted the letter and slid it into its envelope as he reached out for an ornate, spoon-like device that was full of bubbling red wax.

"'By disobeying these orders, you will be DOOMing yourself to a lifetime of pure…DOOM! Ahahahaha! Ahem. So don't _try _anything, fools!''"

Slowly, he poured the red wax onto the back of the envelope.

"'The omnipresent spectre…'"

He pressed a stamp onto the wax before it dried and then quickly pulled the stamp away, careful not to leave any residue behind. In the stamp's place was a large, triangular seal that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a face of some sort. Delighted at his own work, the Invader picked up the letter and held it out for himself to admire, grinning wickedly at the odd red insignia.

"'I. Z.'"

♪ ♪ ♪

"Si_lvie!_"

"_I need a drink…_" muttered M. Violet, wincing at Calamari's indignant shrieking.

"_You've alla gone mad forrr dat _Si_lvie!_" she fumed again.

"_I'm outta here,_" M. Rouge said to himself, preparing to sneak off once again. Much to his dismay, however, M. Violet at once noticed what he was up to and gave him a swift whack upside the head.

"_'ee prrrob'ly deed eet!_" Calamari incriminated, jabbing her finger at Dibier again as she stormed up the rest of the stairs and down the hall. "_Zee keed with zee biga 'ead!_"

"_Come _on!" Dibier vociferated. "_My head's not that big!_"

"_But lady!_" Violet begged, hurrying after Calamari and nearly getting smacked in the face with a door as the irate diva burst into her Silvie's-formerly-hers-bur-soon-to-be-hers-again-since-Silvie-was-going-to-be-pushed-out-of-the-limelight-because-the-managers-were-idiots-and-would-make-Calamari-the-star-again dressing room.

"_Porcoddio!_" Calamari spat, hurling every object within her reach at Messieurs Rouge and Violet, stomping her feet, and generally throwing a temper tantrum.

"_Where'd my chips go…?_" Rouge wondered aloud, casting a glance around the room as he ignored the smoldering look Violet was giving him.

"_Could you be more dense?_"

"What?" Rouge asked defensively. "They're the extra salty kind!"

When Violet continued to glare, Rouge could detect that his partner was on the verge of having another one of his nervous breakdowns and that it would be easier just to consent. "Ohhh _fine,_" he sighed, letting his chips become his second priority for the time being.

"_Ty curaku!_" Calamari wailed.

"_But lady!_" Rouge pleaded, though not nearly as soulfully as his co-manager.

"_We'll stop this guy!_" Violet assured her.

"_I'll use my lasers!_" the red-clad manager suddenly exclaimed, grinning eagerly.

"_But lady!_" Violet beseeched again as Calamari flopped grandly onto her feinting couch.

"_This guy is _nuts!" Rouge told her.

"_I'll be he's short, too,_" Violet added pointedly.

"_We will make Silvie one of the extras,_" Rouge proposed. "_She'll have no lines._"

The managers shared a grave look.

"_Calamari will be in the lead!_"

But the diva would have none of their sickening glorification. Tossing one last throw pillow at the managers, she flounced petulantly out of the room, her springy blonde curls swinging wildly behind her.

"_Do not theenk youa can brrribe me!_" she warned.

"_Bribe her!_" echoed Poonchy obediently as his girlfriend took her conniption to the backstage area where flocks of stagehands, ballerinas, choristers, and other random people who did not deserve a title or even a category gathered to see what the uproar was all about.

"_You know dat you cannot lie to me!_"

"_To her!_" Poonchy reverberated.

"_Nenda kutomba!_" ranted Calamari, oblivious to the euphoric atmosphere that had come over the rest of the company… "_Coma a merda ei morra!_" …to the exuberant cheers of the choristers… "_Ne joue pas avec moi!_" …and to the lone stagehand that decided to tell her exactly what he thought of her and flashed her his middle finger.

"_Ti deegeneeraat! Schleimer!_"

"I told you so, but you're all dense," muttered Mlle. Gazette, keeping her distance as she watched the others troop on to the stage where the _corpse de ballet _was busy rehearsing for that night's performance.

"_You 'ave all shunned me!_" Calamari declared, ignoring the pained cries of several dancers as she shoved them out of her way.

"…now stupid Zim will take offense," continued Mlle. Gazette.

Suddenly, just as she reached the edge of the stage, Calamari came to a halt, causing the others to crash into one another in a comical fashion.

With her back to the managers she proclaimed, "_You 'ave deesmeesed me!_"

"_Both our lives are at stake!_" they cried.

"_Youa insulta me!_" she raved, rounding on the managers, who, though they were much taller and therefore should have had the upper hand, recoiled at the weedy prima donna.

"_Come on, lady,_" Rouge and Violet entreated piteously, "_we're begging you!_"

"_As to Diavolo!_

_Oma kora su!_

_Shakli b'tahat!_

_Te hülye kurva!_

_Te fut in neam! _"

"_Loud creature – make noise now,_" the managers commanded. "_Do us a favor!_"

"_I think this plot is getting worse…!_" surmised the Vicomte de Dibier, Tyia, and Mlle. Gazette.

"_We're _cursed…!" wailed Rouge and Violet.

"_Irrumator…!_"

The diva, the managers, the viscount, the dancer, and the ballet instructor all ended their song on a trilling high note despite the fact that they had just circumnavigated the entire theatre and therefore should have been way too out of breath to sing anymore. Calamari's servants stopped and stared, though they were being weighed down by the furniture they had been moving out of the diva's dressing room. They had been stricken dumb, you see, upon realizing that they were back where the started: the grand staircase of the Opéra House.

Calamari ploughed onward, shoving the towering doors to the lobby open only to back away in slightly flattered surprise. A massive crowd had gathered outside of the Opéra House while she, Calamari, was picking a bone with the managers. The diva smiled widely, mistaking the horde of people for her admirers, and stepped forward to accept their encomium. Therefore, she was greatly startled (and angered) when one of her supposed aficionados stepped forward, proffering a yellow carnation, and said:

"Oh my _God! _It's Paris Hilton! Geeze, your nose is even bigger than I _thought… _Guys!" he said, turning to his companions. "Guys – check it out! Paris Hilton! Oh _wow! _Hey," he began, looking at the now fuming Calamari again, "hey, Miss Hilton, Paris…d'you know that Silvie chick? Yeah, okay, d'you think you could give this to her?" He grinned, holding out the carnation again.

With her teeth clenched so tightly they threatened to crack, Calamari let out a growl of rage and slammed the doors shut. Messieurs Rouge and Violet rushed to her side.

"_We're not bribing you,_" Violet hurried to tell her.

"I'm _not a smooze,_" Rouge insisted.

"_Do you nota vant dat snotty ballet rrrat to sing fora you?_" Calamari seethed.

The managers looked at each other.

"_Short creature – no._

_That girl's old news._"

♪ ♪ ♪

**Notes**

Jack the chauffeur - come on. You think I'd let my _Pirates of the Caribbean_ OC in the story and not a character who was actually in the movie? I'm ashamed of you guys, really. For the record, however, I do not own Captain Jack Sparrow. He belongs to the Disney corporation, though I'm going to say that Johnny Depp should have partial ownership since he's the one who brought Captain Jack to life, after all. Also, I should either be pummeled or awarded for making him wear a chauffeur's outfit in my parody./Captain Jack: And fer makin' me take a bath./ And for making you take a bath, yes, even though you did need one. Don't even think of denying it. -.9

Opium dens - this might actually be very funny to those who have seen the movie _From Hell _. For those who haven't, it's a film about Jack the Ripper starring Johnny Depp as a British inspector/opium addict who is trying to hunt down the infamous murderer. I merely thought that some might find it amusing since Captain Jack is the one who mentions the opium dens.

...some creepy ex-ballerina... - uhh...yeah. When I first started this parody, I made the mistake of thinking that, in the movie's prologue, it was an older Meg Giry who was at the auction. Apparently, it's not. According to my friend's copy of_ the Phantom Companion_, it's Meg's mom, Mme. Giry, and not Meg herself. So, the fact that I made the woman an older Tyia in my parody and not an older Gaz is incorrect. Sorry. However, it makes more sense for the cute and bouncy ballerina to be watching and following Dib around than dark and moody Gaz, right? Right.

Messieurs Rouge and Violet's outfits - this is so crazy. While deciding how to describe their clothing, I checked out an online PotO 2004 gallery to see what Firmin and André were wearing during "Notes." Originally, I had planned on giving Red and Purple the same clothing on in their signature colors. The crazy part is, though, when I finally found good, clear pictures of Firmin and André during "Notes" _they were already wearing red and purple outfits!_ Firmin (Red) was wearing a deep burgundy/auburn ensemble and André (Purple) had on anoutfit that was several shades of violet. Honestly, how freaky is that?

Cheetos - like I said before, don't mind the anachronisms. Rest assured, they are completely intentional.

"_Upon looking at some dancer's exposed –_ " - it didn't say what you think it said, you know. It said "flesh," not something foul. Zim doesn't swear (not in human, anyway ;D).

"_Have you breathed in that mysterious mist?_ " - it's a joke among several of my fellow Phantom fans that the mist that filled the dressing room during the mirror scene is actually a narcotic of some kind, which would explain why Emmy looks stoned throughout the title song and "Music of the Night."

"...and stick a –" - gosh, however could this sentence end? Well, I'm certainly not about to finish it, so I'll leave it up to your little minds. I'm sure you're all smart, creative kids; you can figure it out on your own. By the way, is it just me, or is this chapter considerably much more...vulgar...than its predecessors did? No one has actually come out and said anything (yet), but stuff has certainly been implied.

...like a thermogenic cutting instrument through a soft yellowish emulsion of butterfat, water, air, and salt that is churned from milk or cream - because, and this was stated in the Prologue, saying "like a hot knife through butter" is _so_ yesterday.

The Ghost's dollhouse - like I said in the story, despite the fact that many fans were annoyed by this and the fact that many more make fun of it, I always kinda liked the idea. I'm note entirely sure if it's something Erik would do , but I like the idea nonetheless. It shows that the Phantom is in control of his theatre and everyone in it, and that, even though he calls himself the manager's "obedient servant" and acts like he's working for _them_ , he's really the one running the show (bad pun intended). But maybe that's just me.

_Ill Mootoe_ - I know it's really _Il Muto_ , but I also know that it's school and not skool. ;D Remember: In Zimworld, it would appear that things are spelled the way they sound.

an ornate, spoon-like device - there's a name for this. I know there is. But I couldn't find out what it's called, so I went with "spoon-like device." Hope nobody minds (this is probably another one of those situations where I'm the only one who really cares, right?). Besides, this is a parody. If it were a serious work of fiction, I would be even more of a perfectionist and stop writing until I finally figured out the name of the ornate, spoon-like device.

_Porcoddio_ - Italian for "that pig of God." I decided that, instead of actually saying stuff in a foreign tongue like Carlotta did, Calamari (since she can't seem to decide _what_ her ethnicity is) would just say a bunch of random (and dirty) things in many different languages. It's lewd! And fun! Please don't be offended by the following phrases; they're only meant to be humorous.

_Ty curaku _ - Czech for "You prick."

...other random people who did not deserve a title or even a category... - extras are severely abused, you know, not to mention the emotional problems they develop because of all the neglect. What's more, it's incredibly aggravating when the bloody lead misses six rehearsals in a row and nobody says a word to her, yet when a somebody who doesn't even have any_ lines_ and could easily be replaced or left out of the show completely is just a few minutes late for a practice, it's the end of the world. Lousy injustices... (realizes that she has been ranting) Oh. Sorry.

_Nenda kutomba_ - Swahili for "Go screw yourself."

_Coma a merda ei morra _ - Portuguese for "Eat shit and die."

_Ne joue pas avec moi _ - French for "Don't mess with me."

_Ti doegeneeraat_ - Russian for "You're a degenerate."

_Schleimer_ - German for "Kiss ass."

_As to Diavolo _ - Greek for "Go to Hell."

_Oma kora su_ - Japanese for "I'm going to kill you."

_Shakli b'tahat _ - Hebrew for 'Kiss my ass."

_Te hülye kurva _ - Hungarian for "You stupid whore."

_Te fut in neam_ - Romanian for "Screw your relatives."

_Irrumator_ - Latin for "Bastard."

**Special Note to Amethyst Fluff (yay, you're special!): **You're in luck! The rewritten "All I Ask of You" actually makes me quite proud of my (mediocre) skills as a lyricist – note that it's already written, which means that the next chapter _should _be along much sooner than this one was. I'm somewhat happy with "Wishing You were Somehow Here Again," as well. And the sword fight…ahaha…just you wait for that sword fight. (proceeds to smirk mysteriously)

I apologize for the confusion about which Erik is making a cameo in this parody, which says to me that I have been negligent in my duty as an author. I should have been clearer in the fact that it _is_, in fact, Leroux!Erik, as much as I would have loved to use M. C. Phantom, which brings me to my next point. You are so right! I've often thought that Zim and Michael Crawford had eerilysimilar sounding voices, whether singing or otherwise. In all honesty, it's what originally made me think, "Hmm…Zim equals Phantom." It's also one of the reasons why I didn't make the Erik in this parody M. C. Phantom. The similar sounding voices would have brought on much confusion, to Silvie, anyway. And because I felt that, especially after the 2004 movie came out, Leroux!Erik was being severely neglected. Plus, his entire persona kinda fits in with the whole IZ crew, anyway.

Backing up a bit – yeah, I always felt that Lon!Erik was just a _little _too creepy, even for IZ and even though it was a funny kind of creepy. As a note, however, if you're a little put off by him because of his acting…well, that's the way it was in silent films. The actors didn't have the privilege of using their voices, so they had to work with everything they had in order to get the message across to the audience. Sorry; that's the theatre geek in me going crazy again. But I gotta love Lon Chaney after all of the painful lengths he went to in order to make his face look as skull-like as possible.

I've always wondered why Dib never mentioned Zim's being nose-less, as well. To me, that would be more obvious than a lack of ears. Come to think of it, the nose thing has never come up on the show, not to my knowledge, anyway. Huh. Funny that.

Very true. Dib is much more Persian-like than Raoul-like, which has only just occurred to me now. XD I can't believe I never made that connection. Dib's just always struck me as the Raoul of the story. This is mostly due to the fact that I've, obviously, always seen Zim as the Phantom, and, since Dib and Zim are rivals fighting over the same thing (in the case of the show, the earth), I automatically stuck Dib in the role of Raoul. Plus, Dib's kinda heroic, though not in the traditional sense of the word, and he's determined and very protective – in the show, it's the earth; in the parody, it's Silvie. However, for the most part, I'd say that he _does _seem to be more like the Persian in personality: Inquisitive, annoying to those around him (but we fangirls like him well enough, of course.

Aww, you weren't babbling! You made several very good points! Don't worry about writing long reviews, since I enjoy them very much, especially since you and I seem to be on the same level with several things. :)

**Special Answer to Invader-Maz (yay! The answer's special! Erm, well, not that you aren't, of course):** They say what keeping your hand at the level of your eyes means in Leroux, but I'll be nice and explain it here, as long as you swear to go out and read the original PotO immediately after (you can read it for free online, btw, so it's not like you'll even be spending any money on it). "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes" is basically what it says: raise your arm in front of your eyes (or right above them, so you can see, which would make more sense). You do this in order to escape the Phantom's most dangerous weapon: his Punjab lasso, i. e., a noose. He is an expert noose-wielder, you see, and can easily kill a person by using one. With just a simple flick of the wrist, he can have the rope around your neck. And the only way to escape it is to keep your hand at the level of your eyes; that way, the rope hooks around your arm instead of your throat, and, supposedly, you can get out of it this way. They do not, I'm sorry to say, explain this in the movie at _all_, and, while they _do _in the musical, it's very vague. Like I said, Leroux is your best option if you want the full explanation.

**Special Author's Note to Everyone (see? You're _all _special!): **As much as it pains me to say this, I'm afraid that this parody is on hiatus until further notice. Please forgive me and remember, as I said before, this does not mean that I will let this story go unfinished. It simply means that it will most definitely be some time before you see another update. Sorry, kids, but, as crazy as it sounds, skool comes first in my life even if I despise it for the most part. Good grades are the only way I can escape my uncultured hick town and move to France. So, until next time…

_So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye!_

– ESY


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